


who linger in the sanctuary of the forsaken

by GordianKnot



Series: Beyond Infinity [1]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Everyone is Dead, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Odin (Marvel)'s A+ Parenting, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-24 18:53:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22022773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GordianKnot/pseuds/GordianKnot
Summary: She was warned; the price of the exchange was a soul, not a life.After giving her life to save half the universe, Natasha Romanoff discovers that the kindness of an ancient cosmic force doesn't always work out well for mortals. The souls of those sacrificed for the Soul Stone are locked in an unchanging, timeless prison, a perfect garden of Eden, free of pain or need. Trapped, she tries to make the most of her afterlife, all too aware that the destruction of all six Infinity Stones is coming...
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov
Series: Beyond Infinity [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1739104
Comments: 63
Kudos: 63





	1. The Garden

Natasha Romanoff chooses to fall.

The cold wind tears at her and her hair whips around her head, but she keeps her eyes fixed on Clint's anguished face. She can only hope that he eventually understands that this is the way it had to be. This was her mission. Scott may have been the catalyst, but Natasha brought everyone together - dragged Clint back from his exile, Tony from his family, and Steve from his apathy. If someone has to pay the ultimate price, it should be her.

Yes. She wants this. Not to die, not to leave what’s left of her family, but to finally do something, _anything_ , to undo the most devastating failure of her life. To make things right.

Whatever it takes.

She can’t make out Clint’s face anymore, but his pain is clear in the curve of his body, tense against the cable. She hates putting him through another death, but it’s gratifying to give him what he gave her long ago: a chance for life, purpose, family, love. Hope for redemption. It's a debt she never thought she could repay, but maybe, if this works…

It will work. It has to work. Natasha may not die with her ledger balanced, but Clint will return with the stone and the others will bring everyone back. They will, she knows it. Laura, Cooper, Lila, Nathaniel, Sam, Wanda - everyone. The family she was never supposed to have will avenge her with life instead of death and trillions of lives will be saved and maybe, maybe, she'll finally be in the black.

Clint is a tiny, blurry speck against the looming cliff, but she knows he can still see her, so she keeps her eyes open. Why hasn’t she hit yet, how far can it be?

No. No fear.

No regrets.

It's oka-

***

There's a flash of white light and a tugging sensation in her chest, and Natasha blinks open eyes that she doesn't remember closing. She's lying on her back. Her ribs don't hurt anymore, and she's not cold. The sky overhead is peaceful, the amorphous clouds painted in muted twilight colors. The ground beneath her is soft with thick grass.

Puzzled, she sits up and finds herself surrounded by a rainbow of mismatched, childlike aliens. They're at a respectful distance and nothing in their body language seems aggressive from a human point of view, which has been a reliable indicator with Rocket, Nebula, and Thor. "Hello," Natasha says cautiously, easing up to her feet. She's in the middle of a bowl-shaped clearing in a semi-wild garden that is definitely not on Earth. Or Vormir, for that matter.

A pretty, brown-skinned little girl waves and the hairless, pale green boy beside her loudly chirps, "Hi!"

Natasha smiles at them and makes a show of relaxing. "I'm Natasha," she says. "What are your names?"

Excited and friendly, they introduce themselves as Shalla and Torp, talking over each other to name the other children (Baldur, Keretzenia, Tarlet, Jai, Jormi, and Xinn), but ignoring the giant, brown insect and skinny, chalk-skinned man who glower from isolated corners of the clearing. Natasha commits the names to memory.

"That was very brave!" Torp announces when the introductions are complete. He seems to only have one volume: loud. "How you saved your brother! I wish I'd been brave, but I screamed all the way down when Mama threw me over!"

Natasha is suddenly very grateful for the training that allows her to keep smiling as if nothing is wrong. The children are all nodding and happy, unperturbed by the boy's statement. Orange-furred Jai even laughs.

"Me too," Shalla says, looking up at Natasha admiringly with her slit-pupiled eyes full of wonder. "And I've never seen anyone sacrifice _themselves_."

Solemnly, the oldest boy, Baldur, says, "Nor have I." The other children react as if this is very exciting.

There's really no other way to interpret the conversation, but Natasha carefully asks, "You were all sacrificed for the Soul Stone?"

They answer with a chorus of affirmatives, some of them tossing in details that she could have lived without knowing. Although maybe that should be died without knowing.

"Okay." Looking around at the blue grass and dense bushes with feathery, deep green leaves, she asks, "Could you tell me where we are now?"

"In the Soul Stone. A prisoner, just like the rest of us," the white-skinned man says sourly, speaking up for the first time. The children grow quiet, watching him solemnly but without fear. "Regret your foolishness, don't you?"

"No," Natasha says honestly, her mind racing. She was warned; the price of the exchange was a _soul_ , not a life. It makes sense that the people sacrificed for the stone wouldn't be allowed to move on to wherever other souls go, and it could be much worse. Eternal captivity in some sort of garden is better than being consumed or erased. The children seem happy enough. Anyway, she's never really believed in life after death, so why should she care that she's been taken out of the natural order?

No, Natasha doesn't regret falling, but she can't help thinking, _prisons can be escaped_.

***

Though the Infinity Stones have existed since the birth of the universe, Natasha is only the sixteenth soul to inhabit the vast garden inside the Soul Stone.

The others are happy enough to explain: most beings who climb to the top of the mountain on Vormir and stand on the precipice fail to retrieve the Soul Stone. Some come alone and have no soul to give up but their own. Some turn away when they hear the price. Most of the time, they don’t come alone. Most of the time, seekers of the stone murder a companion - a friend, a fellow seeker, a relative - and discover that the words of the Keeper are perfectly true: to gain the stone, they must lose that which they love _most_.

It's a strange, bittersweet revelation. If Laura and all three kids hadn't died, Natasha is almost positive that she wouldn't be in the garden. On the other hand, she knows with absolute certainty that she was loved above all else. Honestly, she thinks she realized when Clint wouldn't let her go, when she had to tear herself out of his grasp. The thought sticks with her as she acquaints herself with the other prisoners: they were loved, too, but their loved ones chose power over love.

She begins with the adults.

The rail-thin, pale alien named Ghezit won’t talk about his own death. He’s much more interested in the trials of others, and considers watching the failures to be one of the few entertainments available to successful sacrifices. In his favorite story, a woman approached the altar alone and left when told the price. She came back with her newborn baby some years later and flung the child from the peak of the mountain without a second thought. The baby didn't appear in the garden afterwards, and the woman went away empty-handed a second time.

Natasha doesn't care for Ghezit. She milks all of the information she can from him early on and then avoids him. Sadly, he’s the most informative of the adult residents.

In a quiet grotto, an ethereal woman with pale, canary-yellow skin reclines on a soft patch of moss-like growth in eternal sleep. Her long, light blue hair fans around her like a halo. No one remembers her name. As far as anyone knows, she lay down long ago and simply stopped. Her soul may be present, but her mind is gone.

The insectoid Breev is still consumed with bitterness centuries after being defeated in combat and sacrificed by his own brother. He doesn't understand why Natasha would choose to fall, and he picks at the topic every time they talk, refusing to speak of anything else. His remote corner of the garden is rocky and dry, the closest thing to his homeworld he can find in an otherwise lush paradise. He hates it, just like he hates her and himself and everything else in his prison.

If adulthood is defined as physical maturity, there's also a bear-sized, wolf-like quadruped that doesn’t seem to be intelligent. Natasha introduces herself just in case and puts up with being sniffed all over. She even pets him when he shoves his head demandingly under her hands, running her fingers through thick, coarse, gray fur and wondering if tigers feel similar. The beast is the only animal in the garden, and far too tame to have ever been wild. Someone must have loved him enough to successfully trade him for the stone.

The rest of the trapped souls are children, and it seems like the world was made for them.

Under an endless twilight sky of lavender and coral, meadows of soft, blue grass are scattered through shady woods full of tall, climbable trees. There are hidden waterfalls and winding caves lit by luminous silver moss, gentle streams perfect for wading, and deep pools of cool, clear water for swimming. There are no man-made structures, but there are thickly canopied grottos to shelter in (though nothing to shelter from).

There is no pain, so there are no consequences for long falls or roughhousing. Though there is no hunger, there is a variety of fruit to eat, in reds and purples and deep blues. There is no thirst, but the water is refreshing. Even the temperature of the air is eternally pleasant. It's a paradise. All things considered, the afterlife could be much worse.

Natasha has accepted her death and her fate. She knows that she may as well make the most of it. Still, she tries to find a way out. She explores thoroughly, finding the boundaries of the garden and discovering that while massive enough for the less social inhabitants to avoid contact completely, the landscape loops back on itself in physics-defying ways. Eventually, she knows the world well enough to be nearly sure that there is no accessible path to freedom.

With her exploration done, she turns to the kids. They're happy for the attention and fascinated by her choice to give her life to save Clint. No one else has ever willingly traded their own soul for the Stone. None of the children were given the option. Most of them were sacrificed by a parent.

The oldest is a golden-haired, blue-eyed, Asgardian boy named Baldur. He’s been in the garden for over three thousand years, he thinks, though he claims that time has little meaning inside the stone. If he were human, Natasha would guess him to be about thirteen, and he’s already just a hair taller than her - if he’d lived to grow up, he’d easily have been as tall as Thor. Baldur is even-tempered and kind, but a little distant. He makes a habit of teaching newcomers the Allspeak to allow everyone to communicate easily, but once Natasha is conversant he keeps to himself.

Next in apparent age at approximately ten are Shalla (the bossy one), skinny, blue Keretzenia (the most timid), Torp (the loudest), and camouflaged Xinn (the hermit). The first three are inseparable, and spend their eternity wandering aimlessly and entertaining each other with stories. Natasha joins them more often than not, giving them sanitized versions of her old missions when it's her turn to spin a tale. Xinn seems to prefer to be left alone and is usually hiding in the wide-spread branches of the tallest trees. With his dull, gray-green skin and dark gold tiger-stripes, he blends in amazingly well, but Natasha spots him lurking often enough to suspect that he follows his age-mates around.

Tarlet has a grinning mouthful of sharp teeth and smooth, gray skin, reminding her of a cheerful shark. He and orange cat-boy Jai are smaller than the story-tellers, but may not actually be younger. It’s hard to judge their level of maturity, as they're secretive and giggly, endlessly engaged in a one-on-one tag match that they never seem to tire of.

Kirel, Dona, and Fiet are the youngest, tan and pink and crimson, and mostly toddle around in a clearing under the watchful eye of the dog, stuffing their faces with fruit and splashing in a shallow stream. They're not old enough to speak intelligibly, but they learn her name and chant it at her when she visits.

One of the children is so alien that it’s impossible to guess at an equivalent age. It looks like something out of a nightmare, with wet-looking gray skin and far too many tentacles and eyes for comfort. Despite appearances, it’s polite and pleasant, fond of hugs, and very gentle with the smaller children, who it sometimes plays with. Its name is unpronounceable even in the Allspeak, so Baldur calls it Jormi.

Natasha’s experience with Clint's kids makes it easy to interact with the children. Their hugs and smiles assuage her loneliness and loss a little. She joins in their games and tells them stories. She mediates their infrequent disputes. She has enough of a classical education to avoid the fruit for a long time, but eventually she gives in to the children’s coaxing out of curiosity and finds it to be delicious. When she needs time alone, she trains, pointless though it may be with a tireless, unchanging body and all of her gear and weapons missing.

As time slips away in the eternal perfection of the garden, her grief subsides. There are distractions aplenty and her fondness for her fellow sacrifices grows to fill the void in her heart. While she supposes that she’ll always wish that things could have been different, she thinks about what she’s lost less often.

She knows that four years after her death, Thanos will come with his daughter, Gamora, and sacrifice her for the stone. Natasha idly wonders whether there might be some way to escape when it happens, but she doesn’t dwell on it. It’s so much easier to just let herself have a little peace.

***

Natasha is walking with the story-tellers when it happens.

She's holding Keretzenia’s hand while the child clings tight and whimpers in fear. It’s strange how anxious the little girl seems, since she requested the story specifically. Torp seems to be enjoying the telling as he stalks around them, sharing the tale of a great hunt for a fearsome beast in a pitch-black swamp. The hunters have been eaten one by one as the clever beast outsmarted them, and only two remain, with a single, flickering light between them to stave off the darkness. Shalla has opinions on what the hunters should be doing to save themselves, but Torp talks over her when she tries to share them.

Suddenly, the sky rumbles overhead and Keretzenia shrieks. Natasha startles at the sound before she recognizes it from her homeworld. It’s _thunder_ , but there’s never been any change in the garden’s weather before.

“A test!” Shalla cries excitedly, dancing ahead, “Come on, let’s see!”

The children go running off together and Natasha follows after them more slowly, not sure that she really wants to see. They head for the large clearing in the center of the garden, a wide-open space in the shape of a shallow amphitheater.

When she steps past the trees, all of the humanoid sacrifices except for the three smallest children and the sleeping Lady are already there. A seven meter circle at the lowest point in the clearing is surrounded by a crystalline barrier and most of the kids are pressed up against it, peering through. Ghezit, Breev, and Xinn lurk at the treeline. Inside the barrier is the broad, flat altar that sits at the top of the sacrificial mountain on Vormir, the last solid ground any of them stood on before falling to their deaths.

As Natasha walks closer, she sees that the Keeper is coming up the steps with a solitary figure behind him, someone smaller than she was expecting. Thanos was huge, at least eight feet tall, and came with his daughter. This person is about the same size as the Keeper and alone.

The supplicant steps out of the shadows, strangely familiar. He looks human. It takes her too long to recognize Captain America - _Steve_ \- in darkened red, white, and blue but without his shield. His blond hair looks tarnished under the sullen light of the alien sky. But why would Steve be on Vormir? They should have the stone. Did something happen to Clint?

Stumbling down the incline, Natasha presses her hands against the barrier. It’s cold, oddly unpleasant in a way that reminds her vaguely of pain, and completely unyielding. As Steve strides forward, she moves along the wall so she can keep his face in sight. He looks sad and determined, and there’s dread in his eyes.

He walks to the edge of the cliff and looks down, then frowns. “Where's her body?” he demands curtly. Her useless breath catches. He came for…?

“Gone,” the Keeper replies curtly. “They fade quickly.”

Steve's jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue. He takes a long moment to look out over the alien world spread out before him. Then he reaches into a pocket and pulls out something small, something he keeps tightly closed in his fist. “Hey Nat,” he says quietly, staring out into the open air. Somehow, she can hear him clearly despite the wind. “I don't know if this is going to work. Schmidt says the exchange is irreversible, but he also says ‘a soul for a soul’.

“Just in case, I want you to know that we did it - we won. We got everyone back, and Thanos is gone for good. Clint made it home to his wife and kids. Sam and Bucky and Wanda are all okay. We… we didn't come out unscathed. We lost you. We lost Tony. He gave his life to save us all.” His face contorts for a moment with grief and regret, but he controls himself quickly. He breathes out and continues softly, “We couldn’t have done it without you, Natasha. Your sacrifice saved trillions of lives. I hope you're at peace, but if there's some way to come back…” He glances down, clearly fighting tears but also looking strangely guilty. After a long moment, he raises his eyes to the sky and whispers, “We all miss you so much.”

Looking down, he opens his hand to reveal an orange gemstone, glittering in his glove. The Soul Stone, it has to be. Steve takes a deep breath, extends his hand out over the void, and prays, “See you in a minute.” Then he tips the stone off his palm and lets it fall.

The barrier flashes and disappears, taking Steve and the altar with it. Natasha staggers forward and drops to her knees in the empty clearing, feeling hollowed out. They did it, they won, and she remembers what she gave her life for. _Clint, oh god. Laura and Cooper and Lila and Nathaniel_. They’re all alive and she’s still among the dead, and she’s so thankful that she doesn't have to watch Steve realize that. He tried to get her back by returning the Soul Stone… but the way he was talking, he expected to find her body still intact, and she died in 2014 so he must have travelled through time again and he would have kept the window narrow so...

Natasha reels with the sudden certainty that all the ‘time’ she's spent in the garden has been a few days at the most. A year or two’s worth of subjective experience has passed in days, maybe only hours, and there are four years to go before the stones are all destroyed. Worse, something is happening to her mind. She barely recognized _Steve_ , her best friend and the person she was closest to for most of the last decade of her life. By the time the stone is destroyed, she probably won't remember her own name. Has this happened to everyone else?

Of course it has. The children are so _happy_.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then Breev buzzes with annoyance and disgust. “Your people are mad, self-sacrificer,” he grumbles as he turns and scuttles away. Ghezit and most of the children leave quietly, disappearing in different directions. Shalla drags Torp away when it looks like he’ll say something.

The only one who stays is Baldur, who comes to sit silently next to her, his legs drawn up and ankles crossed, arms braced on his knees. They don’t move for what feels like hours, though time has no meaning anymore. Natasha starts to count her unnecessary breaths just to ground herself while she forces herself to remember what she almost lost. _Steve and Clint and Laura and Cooper and Lila and Nathaniel and Bruce and Tony and Thor and Wanda and Sam and Rhodey and Vision and Fury and Hill and Pepper and Okoye and Rocket and Nebula and_...

***

... _Clint and Laura and Steve and Lila and Tony and Sam and Cooper and_ -

“It is normal for the painful memories of life to fade,” Baldur says after a while, interrupting her train of thought.

Natasha turns her head toward the Asgardian slowly, thinking _ten million eight hundred thirty thousand one hundred ten_ and wondering why she was counting. She was…. she was trying to remember _Clint and Laura and Steve_ -

“The stone wishes for us to be content in our imprisonment,” he muses, “or so it seems. When you were new to the garden, you quickly learned that there is no pain, no need. Now you have discovered that the timelessness of this place takes a toll on mortal minds. We fill our heads with idle pursuits and our past lives blur into mere shadows. But to dwell on what’s lost without ceasing will lead to the fate of the Lady in the grove, lying insensate for eternity.”

“I…” Natasha fists her hands in the grass beside her knees. “I don’t want to forget.”

“Then do not,” Baldur counsels. “Keep your dear ones in your thoughts, but allow yourself to partake of the peace this place offers as well. You are too noble to lose yourself in regret.” The face of a boy smiles at her kindly, but the weight of millennia is in his sky blue eyes. “Your friends would agree, I think. The man who fought for the right to die for you. The one who returned an Infinity Stone for the hope of having you by his side again.”

“Clint,” she breathes. “And Steve.”

“Clint and Steve,” Baldur echoes. He rises to his feet and turns, extending his arm to her. He reminds her so much of Thor when he stands above her and smiles. “Come, Natasha of Midgard. Tell me stories of your shield-brothers while you teach me your way of fighting. It seems very different from what my father and sister taught.”

Natasha takes his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First story on AO3, yay! This story is more or less complete, but I'm still tweaking some of the later bits. I'm planning to post a chapter a week.


	2. The Lost Prince

Time passes, or seems to. Nothing changes except for the souls in the garden, whiling away their eternities. The story-tellers wander, Tarlet and Jai chase each other, and the others remain in their usual places. Natasha and Baldur find their own favored haunt - a large clearing with climbable trees, a few scattered boulders, and a large, rocky outcropping near the path that leads toward the center of the garden. The terrain makes their sparring sessions a little more dynamic, providing opportunities for cover and aerial attacks.

Baldur is a challenging opponent, standing nearly two inches taller than Natasha and greatly outmatching her in strength despite having a body trapped in early adolescence. He’s neither as fast nor as agile, though, and struggles at first to lay a finger on her. They quickly develop a set of rules for victory that allow each an equal chance, but they give up on the point system when they move into quadruple digits. Since both of them are invulnerable, untiring, and immune to pain, their matches last until they decide to do something else. 

They talk while they fight, breathlessness not being an issue. 

Often, Baldur tells her about his knowledge and schooling instead of his life before the garden. Natasha learns quite a bit about the cosmology of their universe and how the Asgardians have turned science into something more like magic. When he lived, Baldur was a student of what he calls Seidr. He seems to enjoy describing every aspect of the art from theory to technique. He explains how to use words and gestures to reshape matter, bend space, and twist light into illusion. He rhapsodizes about subtle and grand applications of power shown to him by his teachers - feats he would have been able to accomplish one day if he hadn’t died in childhood. He frequently goes through the motions of practicing, even though he can't use Seidr inside of the stone (Natasha doesn't judge - she still stretches before every sparring session).

Baldur, unlike the other children, still mourns for the life he could have had.

"Would that I could touch the Seidr here," he says sadly as he perches cross-legged on his favorite rock. He weaves his hands through the air with the grace and speed of endless repetition. "I could have discovered so much in these endless millennia.”

“You wouldn’t forget as you go?”

He raises a brow at her as he continues to flow through his forms. “Have you forgotten anything which has occurred here in the garden?”

Natasha has to pause to think about it. It’s been so long. “It’s strange," she observes. “I don’t think I have.” If she focuses, she can remember every game, every sparring session, every discussion, and every tale shared by the storytellers. Looking back, the sheer amount of repetition is stunning. In truth, she has very few unique memories - her arrival, Steve’s return of the stone - but all of them are crystal clear. The only memory from her life that comes as easily is her sacrifice. She blinks away the image of Clint's despair as she wrenched herself free and began to fall. “Honest question: am I not capable of being bored?”

“I will try not to take offense,” the boy says with a wry smile. “No, I believe that your mind is protected from the experience of monotony.”

Her eyes sharpen at his phrasing and tone. "Yours isn’t?"

“To a lesser degree, perhaps.” Baldur shrugs, his hands falling into his lap. “I would wager the cause to be our differing lifespans. Aesir live for millennia, humans for less than a century. My mind is made to retain more memories, to keep even those from youth clear. And I did not have many memories when I died." He frowns and shakes himself. "I grow tired of reaching for what I cannot touch. Let us do something else."

Natasha thinks that sparring might not be the best option for his current state of mind. Getting flung into the treetops is fun, but tends to disrupt the flow of battle. "Race to the center?"

He grins, quick and fierce. "The grass is lava?"

Oh, he really wants to win. Well, she can still give him a challenge, even if she'll probably lose. Her answering smile is sly. "Agreed." She runs immediately, his laugh chasing her as she hops onto a rock and uses it to launch herself into the branches of a nearby tree.

***

Natasha tells Baldur almost everything. He listens to her litany of sins without judgement, though he does seem to prefer happier stories. He particularly likes her quiet memories of the Bartons at home or the downtime between missions with Steve and Sam, though maybe that's because those are her favorites. He teaches her to weave her Avengers stories into true Asgardian epics. 

At first, he grows quiet and thoughtful when she mentions Thor and Loki; she can easily guess the reason, but he doesn’t offer and she doesn’t ask. 

Her identity is on the line, so she doesn't lie, just glosses over the gorier details. It's not because Baldur is a child - she knows better than to be deceived by the way a person looks, and while he may not be an adult, precisely, he's not the innocent boy he was when he died. Her friend has existed for thousands of years and seen every facet of greed and desperation and cruelty and mercy in the hundreds of trials he's witnessed. His understanding belies his physical age. The thing is, Natasha doesn't want to forget who she is, but she can't torture herself by reliving her nightmares for eternity. Some memories are too painful or personal to share, and some are just embarrassing and better forgotten. Natasha can’t quite bring herself to care if those parts of her life slip her mind. What's the point in hanging on to pain now that she's dead?

If there were too many enemies and she was captured, it’s enough to say that several unpleasant days passed before she was able to make an escape. The specifics don't matter to anyone anymore.

Why recount the screams and the smells and the panicked desperation when it’s enough to say that she once caused a hospital fire and many people died? She keeps the important things - the regret and the list of names she will never allow herself to forget.

The girl whose only sin was being the daughter of the wrong man must be remembered. What she said while pleading for her life, the hand that cupped over her mouth to smother her cries for help, those things are important. The way the light shone off her glassy eyes as the blood and rain soaked her nightgown is not.

The hundreds, maybe thousands, of people who lost their lives because of her actions, she keeps them. Most of them didn’t deserve to die, but Natasha didn’t care… until she did. She has no intention of returning to that callousness, even in death. 

***

No one knows the secret and hidden places of the garden better than Baldur. When he’s bored, he sometimes shows her something new just to surprise her. It turns out that there are quite a few treasures that Natasha didn’t discover during her exploration.

The entrance to the cave is hidden in the roots of a truly massive tree near the foot of a sheer rock wall. Getting in requires a tight squeeze through a mossy crack in the earth, followed by crawling through a few meters of irregular tunnel. Coarse dirt gives way to rock as the narrow passage opens up quite suddenly into a large chamber. The vault was once a perfectly egg-shaped hollow in the stone, but part of the ceiling has collapsed to open the crown of the room to the sky. The debris fell in a haphazard circle, forming a low ring of broken stones. Moss carpets the floor, covers the tumbled boulders, and climbs the walls of the cavern in shades of blue-green. Shafts of faded light fall through the hole above to illuminate a singular, slender tree, pale and golden, which grows in the center of the hollow.

Natasha walks forward for a closer look, her lips curving into a smile. “It’s beautiful,” she observes, gazing up at the delicate, arcing branches. They appear to be woven together like Celtic knotwork, bowed by the weight of large, golden fruit.

Reaching up and rising to her toes, she can just barely grasp one of the dangling fruits with her fingertips. It drops heavily into her palm with the slightest pressure, and she settles back, studying it as the leaves rustle softly above her. The shape reminds her of an apple, the surface firm and dappled with rosy flecks. The sheen is like brushed metal but the texture is organic, and it’s warm, almost hot to the touch. She cups her hands around it carefully, awed by the long-forgotten sensation.

“It reminds me of my mother’s garden,” Baldur says conversationally. She glances at him and finds his blue eyes locked on the piece of fruit, his brow slightly furrowed. “We had a tree quite like this.”

"I hope it brings back good memories,” Natasha says. She holds the apple out to him, though he doesn’t usually eat the fruit of the garden or drink the water. Maybe this is his exception.

He smiles fondly. "It does," he replies, making no move to take the fruit. "Thank you, no. I wish to believe that the flavor is the same, and would rather not be proven wrong." Settling down to sit on the soft moss with his back against a boulder, he tips his head so he can look up at the interlaced branches above. "I’ve never brought anyone here before.”

“You don’t interact much with the others," she observes, dropping down to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with him. "They look up to you, you know. They think of you as being this ancient, wise older brother. Unapproachable." She takes her first bite of the fruit and hums with bliss. The golden apple is the color of honey inside, dotted with a few tiny seeds. The taste is sweet and heady, like baked apples soaked in wine. The flesh nearly melts in her mouth and the heat lasts as she swallows, making her feel warm inside for the first time in her memory. 

"I've passed time with almost all of them," Baldur asserts. "I was the third - I have welcomed everyone who came after me. I've shared the Allspeak with any who could learn it. I’ve walked with the skalds and entertained the little ones."

She nods her acknowledgement. “It’s been quite a while since you played with any of the kids, though, hasn’t it?”

"I suppose it has," Baldur admits. Thoughtfully, he ventures, “I was cold to you upon your arrival, wasn’t I? I am sorry.”

Natasha nudges him with her shoulder, smiling when he gives her an apologetic look. "I would have said ‘distant’, not ‘cold’,” she corrects. “You were perfectly nice, just disinterested.” She takes another bite of the apple, savoring the sweet heat. “You'd gotten used to being alone."

He's silent for a long while, mulling over her words. She lets him brood, enjoying her treat, until at length the boy observes, "It seems inevitable.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” she points out gently. “Your Asgardian heritage makes you different, but we’re still friends.”

“We are,” he agrees staunchly, “but, Natasha, I have been close to some among our fellows before, and…" He trails off, regarding her sadly, and offers a bittersweet smile. “Even in this timeless place, some things cannot last.”

“We’ll see,” she says. “I’ve gotten pretty good at loyalty.” She pops the last bit of fruit into her mouth and sighs. It’s true that good things don’t always last, but that’s okay. There will always be more apples.

***

There was never any reason to withhold the story of the time heist from Baldur, but she skirts the topic for ages. Maybe she holds back because it’s too fresh at first, or because her death in the middle of it meant that she couldn’t forget and there were other memories that needed preserving. It’s not as if she’s keeping it from him - she never explained why she and Clint needed the Soul Stone or how they got to Vormir, so of course he knew she was leaving things out. Eventually, when the pain isn’t so present, when it almost seems like it happened to someone else, Natasha lays back on the grass, watching the clouds pass overhead, and quietly tells her companion about Thanos and the five years of quiet, numb hell and Scott’s resurrection and Tony discovering time travel and what was at stake on the altar of the Soul Stone on the day she died.

She tells Baldur, carefully and gently, that after his victory, Thanos will destroy the stones and presumably the garden. To her surprise, he seems to find relief in the knowledge that his eternity may have an end. Instead of being worried or angry or afraid, he focuses on her sacrifice.

“It’s terribly noble,” he says, his expression earnest and full of affection and awe and pride. “To give your soul for your shield-brother and family. To restore half the lives in all the nine realms and beyond…” A hint of bitterness twists his lips for an instant, but he shakes it off and turns his gaze back to the twilight sky. “I can’t imagine that the Soul Stone was ever claimed for a higher purpose.”

Natasha hesitates for a moment. “Do you know why you were sacrificed?” she asks. “What the stone was used for?”

“I do not,” Baldur admits. He sighs, rising and walking toward the center of the clearing. Natasha waits; she can see from the set of his shoulders that he’s preparing himself to say more.

"My father was rarely home,” he says slowly. “His attention was held by wars of conquest elsewhere. Likewise, my elder sister was most often offworld with her own armies. My mother was occupied with affairs of state, so I was left in the care of servants and tutors. I was too young and too well protected to truly understand…” Shaking his head, he cuts off whatever he was going to say and changes directions, walking toward the fruit tree.

“Near the end, Father returned and called my sister back to Asgard. We were together as a family for the first time in my memory. It was brief and… not what I had hoped for. My parents and sister fought, though I know not the reason. One night, my sister departed in a rage, her armies following. My father sent his most trusted warriors after her, then bade me to attend him. He took me through the Bifrost and brought me to Vormir." Baldur reaches up to touch one of the perfect, ripe fruits hanging heavily from the branch, his expression wistful.

“He sacrificed you,” Natasha observes gently. “Did he say anything?”

“‘It is the burden of our destiny that we must make sacrifices’,” the boy quotes, looking toward her with a hollow smile. "I never doubted that Father loved me dearly, for he was kind and strict when he visited. I still do not doubt it; my place in this garden is proof. But I do wonder what purpose my death served. I wonder if my sister survived it."

Natasha studies his features carefully, her head whirling with half-remembered conversations, and asks, “Baldur… what was your father’s name?”

***

Thanos has come for the Soul Stone. 

As the last Titan speaks with the Keeper inside the crystalline barrier, Natasha looks to Baldur and finds him watching her solemnly. With this moment, the countdown has begun to the destruction of the Soul Stone.

The green-skinned woman at Thanos' side can only be Gamora, the daughter who never returned from Vormir. Her murder is a hard thing to watch, though she earns some respect with her willingness to die to stop her father. When the barrier falls, the woman is lying in the middle of the clearing, her limbs sprawled out around her. The children linger along the treeline, hesitant to approach but not yet leaving. Breev and Ghezit are already departing, disinterested. 

Almost immediately, Gamora stirs. She blinks at the sky, her hands pressing into the soft grass at her sides, and rolls to her feet in a fluid motion. She looks around wildly, clearly ready for combat, but seeing that she is surrounded by children, her eyes widen and her aggressive posture eases into mere wariness. Taking a few deep breaths, she glances back and forth between Baldur and Natasha for a moment before she focuses on Natasha and demands, “Who are you? What is this place?”

The Avenger takes a half-step forward, keeping her body language and expression passive and open. “I'm Natasha,” she says. “You're inside the Soul Stone.”

Gamora swallows hard. “ _Inside_ the Soul Stone?”

“We got sacrificed, like you,” Torp announces loudly. Shalla nudges him in the side and shushes him.

Gamora shuffles back, re-orienting herself so none of the children are behind her. She’s beginning to breathe more shallowly, and she shakes her head once in denial.

Natasha shifts her position carefully, drawing Gamora’s attention back to her. In an earnest but gentle voice, she says, “I think you already understand what’s happened. You knew before you hit the bottom, right? But you’re not going to take my word for it. Look around and try to find the edges of this place. Nothing can hurt you. When you’re ready, we can talk.”

The green woman’s face screws up in suspicion, and she turns and leaves the clearing at a jog. As the children begin to wander off toward their own pursuits, Baldur steps closer to Natasha and quietly asks, “Do you suppose she’ll come to us before the end?”

Natasha nods thoughtfully. “Yeah. I’m sure we’ll see her in no time at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, but the next one will be longer and include the destruction of the Soul Stone. Thanks for reading!


	3. The Warrior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gamora learns the limits of her prison and the destruction of the Soul Stone provides an unexpected choice for the sacrifices.

Natasha hangs upside down, watching her hair dangle below her head. As she sways slowly back and forth, the red curtain moves in counterpoint. She’s careful not to look at Baldur as he lays on the soft, blue grass below, just off to the side so she can’t easily pounce on him. She’s considering a surprise attack when she finishes her story - they’ve been idle for quite a while and a bit of sparring sounds like fun. 

“So Tony decided that we couldn’t just let them get on board the jet and hack it to fly to the location of our choice,” she narrates, rolling her eyes. “Oh no. He reckoned that we should just have a little chat on the tarmac of a big, public airport. To his credit, evacuating the facility meant that there wasn’t much danger to civilians. On the other hand, he lost his patience pretty much right away and had his spiderkid take Steve’s shield.” 

“A terrible error,” Baldur says gravely, as if he hasn’t heard the story a hundred times. “It’s well known that Captain America never learned how to back down from a fight.” 

Natasha laughs. “Tony certainly knew it. Honestly, I think he just wanted an excuse to punch Steve.” 

A rustle of leaves draws their attention to the edge of the clearing just in time to see Gamora stride out of a gap in the bushes. Expression set and determined, the woman crosses her arms over her chest and commands without preamble, “Tell me what you know about this place.” 

“That was quicker than expected,” Baldur observes. 

“You speak truly,” Natasha agrees. With the ease of long practice, she swings her body backward and unhooks her knees from the tree branch, her momentum allowing her to flip in midair and land lightly on her feet at Baldur’s side. Addressing Gamora, she asks, “Is there anything in particular you want to know?” 

Grimly, the warrior instructs, “Just start talking.” 

“Are you still on the ‘trying to escape’ stage?” Natasha asks. “Because you’ll probably have realized a lot of this already.” Gamora just looks at her expectantly, so she obligingly begins to ramble, “The edges of the world bend back on each other, so you can travel in a mostly straight line and come back to where you began. You don’t need food or water. You don’t need to breathe, either, in case you want to try to find an underwater route to freedom. There isn’t one, but it’s kind of peaceful to sit on the bottom of a lake for a while. Time is strange and you'll lose track of it soon, if you haven't already. The light is always like this; there’s no night and day, no changing weather, no seasons. No one ages-” 

“Then you’re older than you look,” Gamora observes, dark eyes sharpening. 

“Everyone is, in a way,” Natasha replies with a shrug, “but I was the last one to arrive before you. It’s only been about four Midgardian years since I died. Feels like centuries, though.” 

“While I have been in the garden for over three millennia,” Baldur chimes in, sitting up. “Did you find the sleeping lady in your exploration, Gamora?” 

Gamora frowns. “Yes.” 

“To my knowledge, she and the wolf-creature are the only ones who have been here longer than I.” Baldur clambers to his feet and walks to a large rock that juts out of the ground under one of the trees. As he sits with all the gravitas of a king on his throne, he says, “I’ll tell you now the answer to the question I know you will ask: in all that time, no one has left the garden.” 

“There must be a way,” Gamora insists, nearly vibrating with tension. “I have to stop Thanos before he kills half the people in the universe. It may already be too late.” 

“You cannot stop him,” he tells her gently, but without attempting to soften the blow. “You are dead, and no longer a part of that world.” 

Gamora shakes her head in denial, though it’s clear from her expression of grief and sorrow that she already knows this truth. She’s rigid with frustration and the need to lash out. 

Spontaneously, Natasha asks, “Would you like to spar?” 

The green woman looks startled. She’s clearly tempted for a moment, her fingers flexing in and out of fists, but she shakes her head. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she says. 

“You can’t. None of us feel pain or take damage.” When Gamora continues to look conflicted, Natasha goes on, “Thanos raised you as a warrior, right? You’ve fought all your life. It was similar for me. I was taken when I was a child and made into a weapon. When you come from violence, it sometimes helps to fight out your frustrations.” 

“If it pleases,” Baldur offers when Gamora looks skeptical, “I am of the Aesir. If Natasha cannot hold your interest, then I will take her place as your opponent.” 

Gamora raises a brow. “Oh. Well in that case...” 

*** 

Ages or moments later, Gamora looks thoughtful and more centered as she picks herself up from the grass. “I didn’t realize that human males were so much weaker than the females,” she muses aloud. “I would have thought, given the difference in size and muscle mass, that they would be stronger.” 

“A lifetime of training makes a big difference,” Natasha replies wryly, bouncing a bit in her ready stance. It’s exciting to have someone new to fight, and Gamora is both stronger than her and at least equally skilled. Maybe even better. When her opponent doesn’t move to continue their bout, Natasha shrugs and relaxes, strolling to a nearby bush to pull free a red, plum-like orb. “To be fair, I’m functionally invulnerable and I’ve been sparring with Baldur for an eternity. You’d have won easily if you didn’t still flinch.” Offering the fruit, she asks, “Would you like one?” 

“No, thank you,” Gamora declines. “It’s silly, but when I was small, my mother used to tell me a story… I can’t really remember how it went, but there was something about never eating in the land of the dead.” As soon as she says it, a short, unhappy laugh bursts from her and she murmurs, “I’m really dead.” 

“Huh,” Natasha says, distracted, “We had myths like that on my world, too.” She looks down at the piece of fruit in her hand and frowns. The skin is taut and similar in color to a raspberry. She knows the juice inside is a darker, rich, bloody crimson and the taste is crisp and sweet. How did that story go? 

“Do you feel calmer, Gamora?” Baldur asks, leaning forward. 

“Yes,” Gamora admits. “Thank you. But I still have to find a way out.” 

The boy shares a look with Natasha. “Perhaps not.” 

Natasha nods and regards Gamora seriously. “There’s something you should know. It’s a long, strange story, but I think it may help you to hear it.” 

*** 

Just like the first time she looked out over the landscape from the mountaintop, Natasha thinks that Clint would have loved this view. Their high perch is invisible from the ground far below, the summit appearing to be merely a high rock face, something that could be scaled by even the most amateur living hiker. It’s only in climbing the mountain that the scope of it unfolds. At the peak, surrounded by the twilight sky with the blue-green shadows of the garden spread out far below, the closed world seems vast and unending. 

It’s a good place for contemplation. 

Gamora is surprisingly sanguine about the possibility of time travel. She’s understandably upset that Thanos will succeed, but knowing that he will ultimately be defeated and his work undone seems to temper her rage and guilt. “You’re sure that your Captain was speaking the truth when he said that everyone was restored?” 

“Yes,” Natasha says simply. “Steve wouldn’t lie about something like that, whether or not he believed I was listening. Five years from now, everyone Thanos snaps out of existence will be brought back as if nothing happened. Get back what we lost, keep what we found; that was the plan.” 

Gamora nods slowly, relaxing slightly in the face of her certainty. The fallen warrior looks out over the verdant world below. “And what happens to us when the Soul Stone is destroyed?” 

“We'll find out soon enough,” Baldur replies. 

*** 

Gamora remains restless, often wandering the less travelled areas of the garden alone when not talking or sparring with Natasha and Baldur. Fore-warned of the danger of losing her memories by Natasha, she readily shares stories of her family. Rocket and Nebula are familiar to Natasha, and she has stories to share in kind. For the others, Drax and Mantis and Groot and Quill, she mourns for their deaths at her father's hand but holds hope for their resurrection. 

She talks about her sister Nebula as a girl and a young woman and as the new person she was still learning to be once freed from Thanos. She talks about Rocket's brilliance and abrasiveness and the wounded heart he hides. She talks about Drax's infuriating, endearing, blunt honesty and Mantis' kindness and startling contradictions, and smiles at the memory of the strange, unshakable bond between them. She talks about Groot's infancy and childhood and adolescence, and her almost-motherly love for him shines in her eyes. She talks about Quill, who seems to be good-hearted, but also a short-sighted idiot who never really passed out of boyhood insecurity, and her voice breaks with emotion. Afterwards, she always goes away and they don't see her for a while. 

Hearing Gamora speak makes Natasha ache in a part of herself she'd almost forgotten. She misses her friends, her own fractured, jigsaw family, and she hopes that when it all ends, she's lucky enough to see them again. She didn't ever think much about the afterlife, but if souls can be kept like pets in a cage, maybe they can go on to some other existence where everyone comes together again. 

Natasha doesn't dwell on it - there's no knowing how long the wait will be. The stories make Baldur melancholy, so she focuses on pulling him out of his funk and making the best of the slice of eternity they can still count on. 

*** 

There is no warning. The peace of the garden is shattered in an instant as fire and lightning tear across the sky and the whole world shudders. Natasha reaches for Baldur, but the ground is already collapsing beneath her feet and she's plunged down into icy, black water alone. She sinks like a lead weight, disoriented and startled to experience pain as she inhales the frigid liquid. The cold _aches_ , her lungs _burn_. Lights flicker in the darkness, flashes of explosions maybe, but far away. 

Before she can get her bearings, a wave of pressure moves through the liquid and she's carried with it, tumbling head over heels. She huddles into a tight ball to ride it out. When the wave passes, she doesn't know where she is or which way is up, but everything's gone still and soundless. There's not a trace of current. The darkness is perfect; she can’t even see her own arms. All she has is touch, and she uncurls and thrashes against the resistance of the water, disoriented and afraid. Is this death? True death? It hurts. 

There's suddenly a blinding orange light in front of - no, above her - radiating uncomfortable heat. She can feel cool darkness at her back. 

Knowledge is pressed into her mind, heavy and certain. This is a choice - fire and life and pain or the chilly peace of oblivion. There is nothing to fear below her, and only uncertainty above. There is urgency - no time, real or perceived, to dally over the choice. 

Life or death? 

**CHOOSE.**

Natasha kicks toward the surface and the light. Immediately, another pressure wave pushes her higher, thrusting her toward her goal. She is flung upward and outward, blinded by unfathomable radiance, her veins on fire as she smashes through a barrier that cuts at her skin like broken glass, and then- 

*** 

Water. 

Pressure. 

Falling. 

Pain. 

Natasha rolls onto her side on a cold, stone surface and expels a throat full of water. She coughs and chokes, curling inwards around the fiery agony in her chest as more liquid is forced out, and still more, until she finally tastes air. She sucks in a rattling, cold-fire gasp. For an eternal moment, all she knows is pain, pain, pain. It’s so foreign that she can’t make sense of it, her mind on the edge of breaking. Her heart, her lungs, her stomach - everything inside her feels like it’s torn and bleeding. Her bones ache down to the marrow, throbbing with every sickening pulse in her chest. Other sensations pour in while she’s still reeling - she’s soaking wet, her sodden, ill-fitting uniform doing little to shield her from the icy wind, and her weapons dig uncomfortably into her legs and ribs. She realizes that she’s whimpering like a wounded animal, and it takes every ounce of will to stop herself. 

Someone is screaming, a high, thready sound that seems like it’s been going on for some time. It rings in her head, jumbling the sound of other voices and punctuated by the deep growl of some animal and a hollow, gurgling noise. The long scream ends first, then the gurgling. 

Natasha is… Natasha _is_. She breathes shallowly with leaden lungs, too tired to cough anymore, and the sound of the air moving in her chest is too noticeable and somehow wrong. The pain doesn’t fade, but she can almost think around it. Her body twitches feebly, uncoiling a little from the fetal ball she’s curled into. She’s cold, too cold, and she can’t tell how badly she’s hurt. 

Sudden heat wraps around her upper arm and someone familiar is saying her name in a strained but relieved voice. The touch of the scaldingly hot hand on her body is like a brand, but it’s the first thing she knows that isn’t purely pain. She forces her eyes open, blinking away tears, and sees a dark, red puddle on black stone. When she tries to move away, it follows, tugging at her scalp - her own hair, loose and wet. Groaning, she turns her head to see the sky shrouded in storm clouds and the high peak of Vormir’s sacrificial altar looming far above. A silhouette hovers over her, slowly swimming into focus. Coughing once, Natasha rasps out, “Baldur?” 

The Aesir boy nods wearily, looking the same except for the lines of strain on his young face, and tugs at her arm, coaxing her to sit up. She barely makes it upright, only staying that way because he sits beside her and they lean on each other. Even through the thick tunic he wears, he’s like a furnace against her side, and she paradoxically begins to shiver. Dazed, Natasha looks around, raising one aching arm to push back the sodden hair that’s plastered to the side of her face. They’re sitting on the rough stone disk at the bottom of the cliff. Baldur is also wet, and they’re not alone. 

Jormi is a huddled ball of darkness, as far away from everyone else as possible without leaving the disk. Ghezit is in much the same position as Natasha woke in, his pained groans the only sign of life. Gamora looks shaken and bedraggled, but in better shape than the rest of them. She’s sitting cross-legged and cradling Xinn, who curls unconscious in her lap. The dog is hunched up beside her, growling at nothing between wheezes. Breev is in a heap, limbs splayed oddly. 

Natasha searches uneasily for the other children, but doesn’t see them. Seeming to understand, Baldur quietly confirms, “The others chose peace, Natasha.” 

Her sore throat tightens further and she nods. She studies the other survivors a little more closely and comes to the conclusion that Breev is dead. There are lacerations all over his carapace and the fluid pooled around him is some kind of yellow ichor instead of just water. Roughly, she asks, “What happened to him?” 

“He tore himself apart,” Gamora replies dully. “Not sure why.” 

“The pain,” Ghezit whines in a voice like a mile of gravel road. “Or his stupid honor.” He makes no attempt to move as he adds, “We need to go looking. Find a ship. This is a dead planet, no food.” 

There’s a round of silence in acknowledgement of this fact. No one rises. 

Listlessly, Baldur turns his face to the sky and calls, “Heimdall? Heimdall, I'm here! Please help?” There is no response. Natasha hadn’t been sure whether Heimdall was one of the survivors of Ragnarok or not. At this point in the timeline, he probably couldn’t answer even if alive; the few hundred Asgardians who eventually made it to Midgard were still in space when the Soul Stone was destroyed and the Bifrost was lost with Asgard. 

Jormi stirs and unfolds itself. To Natasha's surprise, it appears to have grown several inches taller than the last time she saw it and as she watches, it extrudes a few new tentacles. For some reason, her skin crawls at the sight. “Jormi?” 

“ _Friends_ ,” it purrs slowly, in a rumbling, pleasant voice. “ _All my… friends_.” A baker’s dozen of multi-colored eyes blink in the spaces between tentacles, mis-matched and out of sync. “ _The nest calls me, and I return… home_.” The air is distorting around it, a sense of power building. 

She’s relied on her ability to read people for her whole life, and all she can think is that no matter how horrifyingly alien the being looks, she doesn’t actually feel threatened. It’s still Jormi. Hesitantly, Natasha asks, “Can you tell someone where to find us? Send help?” She coughs, her throat raw from those few words. 

Baldur has gone rigid against her, not even breathing. 

Jormi makes a growling, chuckling noise, focusing one yellow eye on her, the pupil pinning in fond amusement. “ _You would not… like… that_.” Another half-dozen new appendages spill out of slick, gray skin, leaving oozing welts. It begins to trace sinuous patterns on the stone that leave thick, charred marks. “ _For the sake of our… acquaintance… I give my oath that I will not seek you out… friends. See that you return the… favor. I wish you… good hunting_.” Then it tears a hole in the air that makes Natasha’s eyes burn and she has to look away, struggling not to be sick. With one last sound of dark humor, it leaves. The hole slurps shut behind it, leaving a strange distortion in the air like heat over pavement. 

“We need to find shelter,” Gamora says into the silence that follows. With a groan, she draws her legs under herself and stands, lifting Xinn in a bridal carry. His baggy clothes hang off of him, heavy and dripping. “Come on, there’s no use staying here.” 

Baldur nods and gets to his feet, steadying himself against Natasha’s shoulder. When he’s upright, he extends a hand to help her up and quietly asks, “Can you stand?” 

“I think so.” She manages with assistance but no real grace. It shouldn’t be so difficult to make her body cooperate, but there’s a pervasive weakness in her limbs. By the time she’s on her feet, Ghezit is also standing, hunched over and wheezing. The dog makes a low, grumbling noise as he rises to all fours and shakes out his dark, shaggy fur half-heartedly. 

Gamora leads the way out of the stone circle, the others limping in her wake. The dog pads along at her side and Ghezit stumbles a few times but stays close. Baldur and Natasha trail further behind, mostly because she can’t seem to get enough air and her lungs feel heavy and wrong. She finds a rhythm of slow, shallow breathing that doesn’t make her chest hurt too badly, but she can’t manage any kind of respectable speed and she’s not stabilizing like the others seem to be. Something is wrong inside of her. From the way Baldur is anxiously side-eyeing her as he supports more and more of her weight, he’s thinking the same. 

Fortunately, they find their shelter relatively quickly. It’s a shallow cave, really more of a horizontal fissure in the rock face. When Baldur and Natasha catch up, Gamora is entering carefully, squinting into the shadows. 

Baldur extends a hand and a shimmer flickers across his palm, spreading slowly until his hand glows just enough to see that the cave ends in a flat surface only a few yards from the entrance. Natasha is close enough to feel the warmth coming from it, as if his hand was actually on fire. As the group files into the hollow, the boy wavers on his feet and moves to the rear wall, carefully sliding down to sit with his back to it. The dog follows, clearly chasing the warmth. He presses along the boy’s leg, nose pointed toward the mouth of the cave. 

Natasha goes to Baldur’s other side, huddling close. It’s a relief to have a chance to get her wind back and maybe warm up a little. Hopefully it will help to be still and quiet. More breathless than she would like, she indicates his burning hand and apprehensively asks, “Does it hurt?” 

“It’s… difficult,” he says slowly. “It's been so long… and I’ve no strength.” 

“Don’t harm yourself,” Gamora cautions, leaning down to place Xinn in Baldur’s lap. “But if you can lend us some light for a while, it will be helpful.” Stepping away, she asks Ghezit, “On your belt - a Kree holomatrix?” 

Ghezit nods warily and watches as the woman crouches and begins to remove gadgets and weapons from various pockets of her black clothing. Grunting as he begins to understand, Ghezit follows suit, placing the holomatrix and a few other things from his belt beside Gamora’s collection before beginning to dig into the numerous pockets of his ratty brown jumpsuit. “What can you make?” he asks. 

“Hopefully a short-range beacon,” Gamora says thoughtfully, frowning at their haul. “Baldur, do you have anything?” 

“No,” the boy says. His eyes are shut and his extended arm is braced on Xinn’s knees, the light already dimming. 

“Natasha?” 

“I don’t think so,” Natasha replies hesitantly. But… her suit… she looks down at the device that Tony created, sitting on her wrist like a simple watch. 

“Should check the corpse,” Ghezit points out. “We go back-” 

“You can if you want,” Gamora says sharply, cutting him off. “I’m not leaving the children alone. We’ll see what we can do with what we have and check Breev's body if we run out of options.” 

He gives her a sour look. “Hopeless, pointless,” Ghezit grumbles, prodding the assortment of tech with a long finger. “Not even half what’s needed. Unlikely to be ships near Vormir. A nasty trick, offered life just to die in a cave.” 

“We’re not dead yet,” Gamora insists grimly, prying open a flat circular object about an inch thick and extracting a slender green cylinder. Ghezit leans in, looking surprised, and soon both of them are occupied in rapid conversation about the possibilities, attention completely focused on their project. They pitch their voices low, and soon have some other small light source in operation as Baldur’s glow fades to a dull red and gutters out. 

Hidden by the shadows, Natasha activates the controls at her wrist and the thicker, white quantum suit closes around her body. The insulation cuts her off from the warmth of Baldur’s shoulder against her own, but getting everyone off of Vormir is more important than her comfort. She performs a quick check and finds the system intact and ready to go as far as she can tell. “I can go home,” she murmurs raspily to Baldur. 

He rolls his head toward her and blinks as he notices her change of attire, barely visible in the gloom. Understanding fills his tired eyes and he quietly asks, “You’re able to return to Midgard? To your time?” 

She nods. It's uncomfortable to talk, but she explains, “My equipment is built into the suit. I can come back for you.” Thoughtfully, she fiddles with the settings of her time-space GPS. If she uses the original settings, she would arrive at the same time as everyone else. That can’t have happened, because Steve would have known her death wasn't permanent. She’s not sure if paradoxes are even a problem, but it’s better to aim for a time after Steve travels back to return the Soul Stone. How long would it take to get more particles from Dr. Pym after he's restored to life? 

Uncertainly, Baldur asks, “What if there are no more Pym particles?” 

“There have to be more,” Natasha insists. “Steve came to return the Stone.” She hedges her bets and programs the coordinates for six weeks after the day of the time heist, setting the device to home in on the active quantum platform nearest in time. Hopefully, it should take her to the same moment in the future as Steve’s return from his second trip. She looks to her friend beside her, hesitating at the idea of leaving him behind. It will be strange to be without him; they’ve been nearly inseparable for centuries. 

Baldur regards her solemnly, his eyes steady with his faith in her. “Don’t be long, Natasha.” 

“It’ll only take a moment,” she assures him and levers herself up from the ground with the support of the cave wall. It takes far too much effort, but she manages. Shakily, she steps away from the wall and presses the button that will take her home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Natasha returns home.


	4. Reunion

Natasha warps in on a much smaller platform than expected, swaying a little from the disorienting travel through time and the quantum realm and blinded by dazzling sunlight. She blinks away the spots in her vision and looks around blearily. For some reason, the equipment has been set up in some woods by a lake. The sky is pale and bright. There are tents and vehicles scattered among the trees and heavy cables running along the ground. As the helmet retracts, she breathes in the fresh air of her homeworld and immediately coughs. The air is dry and harsh - not quite as cold as it was on Vormir, but far from warm. 

“Nat?” A large, green-skinned man wearing a dark sweater and slacks is standing a few yards away, staring at her in shock through black-rimmed glasses. It’s no wonder he’s surprised, considering that no one had any reason to expect her return from the dead. He seems distantly familiar, but she can’t quite place him. The man looks and sounds like he’s about to cry, so he definitely knows her. She should know him back, but she’s forgotten. The bottom drops out of her stomach, and it’s all she can do to keep the fear off her face. He takes a step closer, voice quavering and afraid to hope as he asks, “Nat, is that you?” 

Her mind races, trying to figure out who he is - he’s huge compared to her and green is an unusual skin color for a human, so… 

So… 

So he can only be the Hulk. Relief makes her dizzy and she sways as something clicks in her head and she recognizes him. He was one of the Avengers, the one who was a science guy when he wasn't a giant berserker. _Bruce_. Gentle, despite the rage simmering inside. He's at least an ally, maybe even a friend. He fought beside her in New York and Sokovia and Wakanda. He was involved in the Time Heist. It's strange, though… she remembers telling Baldur that almost nothing could hurt the Hulk, but something is wrong with his right hand. 

“Bruce,” Natasha croaks. Looking down, she eyes the steps that lead to the ground, doubting that she can manage the descent without falling. Not being able to get enough air since the Soul Stone spat her out is starting to catch up to her, and she’s feeling a bit wobbly. Bruce - he seems much more like a Bruce than a Hulk - crosses the distance in three long strides. He has his free hand partially extended, but seems afraid to touch her. Up close, she can see that the damage on his injured limb also crawls up his neck and onto his jaw, and the arm is immobilized against his body in some kind of brace. Natasha suppresses a cough and rasps, “What happened to your arm?” 

“Look at you,” Bruce says incredulously, ignoring her question. Twisting to look over his shoulder, he shouts, “I need some help over here!” He turns back and reaches out almost involuntarily but balks before making contact. Taking the opportunity while he’s close, she curls her hand around his thick forefinger. He makes a soft, wounded sound, but he gives her the support she needs to shakily make her way down to stand on the dry grass. “Nat, where are you hurt? You don’t sound good, are you sick?” 

“Been better,” she admits, wrapping her arms around herself. Even with the extra layer of insulation from the quantum suit, she’s still so cold. _Focus on the mission_ , she thinks. “We have to-” 

Two tall, solidly-built men in dark jackets come running around Bruce, one with brown skin and Captain America’s shield, the other pale and hairy. They both look confused, then stunned. The first man whispers, “What the hell?” 

He's familiar - his voice and his face, the way his expressive eyes widen when he sees her. Natasha _knows_ him. The sight of him doesn’t connect with a name or any specific memories, but the lump in her throat and the prickling in her eyes tell her that this is someone who she never expected to see again, someone who died. She doesn't need details, she's just so happy he’s back. Tearing up a little, she rasps, “You’re alive.” 

“That’s my line,” Shield Guy quips, but he seems shaken. He shares a look with Bruce before glancing toward his bearded, long-haired friend. An elderly man in a lightly colored jacket has also arrived and is staring in disbelief, but no one else seems surprised or concerned by his presence. Shield Guy looks back to her and steps closer to ask, “Do you know who I am?” 

She nods even though technically she doesn't, but it seems like an odd thing for him to ask. Stalling while she tries to think of his name - _she knows it, she does_ \- Natasha glances past him to the other men, hoping that something about them will jog her memory. The young one gives her nothing, but the elder… There’s something about his face, about his blue eyes and the way he’s looking at her - hopeful, heart-broken, like he’s seen a ghost. His eyes… 

Natasha blinks and suddenly the old guy is Steve Rogers, aged about 200 years at best guess. Horrified, she blurts, “ _Steve_?!” and regrets it as a cough tears out of her and her lungs lock up. Fire flares in her chest and she can’t- 

“Hey, whoa there,” Shield Guy says, catching her upper arms as she nearly doubles over. “Breathe, Romanoff.” 

Her body doesn’t want to cooperate. It feels like a weight is pressing down on her ribs, preventing anything but the tiniest gasps of air. The world moves unnaturally around her and she needs to sit before she falls. Falling hurts, pain is bad. “Down,” she chokes out with forced calm. Panicking won’t help. She’s among friends, Natasha reminds herself. They’re not going to let anything happen to her. 

Shield Guy quickly guides her to kneel on the ground. The hairy stranger says something about a car and runs off while Bruce does something that causes the quantum suit she's wearing to retract into the housing, leaving her in her slightly baggy, black uniform. It’s still damp, and she shivers as the chill air cuts through her. Shield Guy hisses as he adjusts his hold on her arms. “She’s like ice,” he snaps. Behind her, Bruce responds by laying his broad, hot hand on her back and she weakly presses into the grounding contact. Crouching in front of Natasha, Shield Guy coaxes, “Stay with us, okay? Don’t try to talk, just relax and focus on breathing. In and out, come on.” 

Natasha keeps her eyes open and focused on the younger man while Old Steve moves closer. They both look so familiar and yet not, but Shield Guy is more comforting, the memory of him almost, almost at her fingertips. Who would Steve give his shield to? She runs through the names in her head, the people she's told Baldur about a thousand times but hasn't _seen_ in an age, and he snaps into place. _Sam_ \- funny, snarky, reliable, brave Sam Wilson, the second best eyes in the sky she ever had. Sam, who was lost. Relief rushes through her, along with a giddy thrill. Their long-shot plan really did work. 

"Sam," Natasha gasps, feeling a hot tear escape and streak down her cheek. The spasm in her chest is easing, probably lasting less than half a minute. She manages to find the safe, shallow rhythm that her body will allow. It’s not enough - she can practically feel her O2 sats dropping. _Focus on the mission_. “I’m okay,” she wheezes. “Have to-” 

“Have to nothing,” Sam counters, worried and relieved at the same time. “Seriously, don’t talk.” 

Natasha coughs, and yes, she’s definitely going to pass out. The edges of her vision are dark and wobbly, but they need to know, in case she’s out for a while, that there’s a rescue mission to mount. She forces out, “Have to… go back… for others.” 

Startled, Sam asks, “What others?” 

“Sacrifices,” she gasps, leaning more heavily into his support. As she pauses to blink away dark spots, suddenly it hits her again that almost all of them are beyond saving already. She won’t cry, she doesn’t have the air, but she can feel fresh tears welling up. “Vor-” 

“Vormir,” Bruce says hollowly, the warmth of his touch leaving her back. “I can get the telemetry from her guidance device.” 

“It’s okay, Nat,” Old Steve tells her, leaning down to lay a still-strong hand firmly on her shoulder. His eyes are the same as ever in his newly-lined face, focused and determined. “We’ll find them and bring them home.” 

Just like that, Natasha relaxes. Steve will make sure everyone else is safe. She can rest, just for a little while. “Missed you,” she tells him breathlessly, and falls. 

*** 

Natasha wakes up warm, with the weight of thick blankets pressing her down into scratchy sheets. She’s wrapped up in layers of fabric, feeling slow and floaty. It's quiet except for an almost inaudible low hum. She doesn’t try to move at first, just opens her eyes enough to see that she’s in a bed in a dimly lit room. Movement to her right makes her roll her head slightly to see. There’s an old man sitting in a chair beside her bed, wearing a blue zip-up fleece over a button-up checked shirt, and smiling at her with moist eyes. Another man, his short-sleeved gray shirt revealing a left arm made of metal, is standing in the corner and watching both of them. That can only be the Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes. For some reason, the elderly stranger makes her more uneasy. 

“Welcome back, Nat,” the old man says affectionately, and she remembers - he’s _Steve_. Old Steve, with his strange, reedy, fragile voice that’s unfamiliar and wrong. “There was some kind of fluid in your lungs, but Dr. Strange says you’re going to be fine after you've had a few days' rest. No permanent damage." 

She takes a deep breath carefully, relieved to find that the pain and weight in her chest are gone. Her ribs only ache a little and the rest of her body is tingly and not-quite-numb. It’s just the strange dragging sensation on her eyes and face and brain that makes it hard to focus. Old Steve looks like he’s waiting for a response, but she can't remember the question. “...Okay?” 

“She’s still out of it,” Barnes observes. “Strange sedated you, Romanova. Said you needed your rest.” 

Natasha doesn’t like being sedated, but can’t remember why. She shifts unhappily under the heavy blankets, drawing her arms up around her body. The sheets feel awful as she moves, too much sensation pulling at her skin. 

“You’re alright,” Old Steve assures her gently. He sounds worried as he asks, “What happened to you on Vormir, Nat? What do you remember?” 

“Vormir?” _Clint. The Soul Stone. Whatever it takes_. He should- Steve brought the stone back, said everyone was okay except Tony. He should already know about the exchange of a soul for a soul. Anxiously, she asks, “Where’s Clint?” 

“He’s on his way,” Old Steve says, seeming oddly relieved. “He’s fine, don’t worry. But after- What happened after Clint left Vormir?” 

_Oh_. Relaxing back into the warm cocoon of blankets, she thinks about it as she studies his weird, wrinkly face. “I was dead,” Natasha recalls wistfully. “In the garden. It was nice. No pain, nothing… nothing bad. Was peaceful.” She misses the peace. It was never warm like she is now, but it wasn't scratchy, either. It felt so different, not as overwhelming, so much _less_. This new place is strange and heavy and she can feel everything touching her, the sheets and the stiff pillows and the gown that’s softer than the sheets but twisted a bit under her hip. 

She blinks sluggishly and Old Steve is looking at her like he’s going to cry. She was telling him something about… He wanted to know what happened on Vormir. Natasha struggles to focus, furrowing her brow and says, “Told them he was gonna destroy it. There was thunder, like a trial. Everything broke apart, the ground, the trees. We fell and I was underwater, in the dark. Had to choose. Then it hurt, and so much water, thought I got it all out.” She’s tired from talking so much and tries to wake herself up by shaking her head, but just feels dizzy. Frowning at Old Steve, she asks, “Why're you _old_? Were young when you put the stone back.” 

He looks startled, and she thinks he pales a little. “You saw that?” 

“Mmhmm.” She's melting into the warm mattress and it feels nice. 

He leans forward to talk to her, but it’s all staticky and doesn’t make sense. It’s odd because she’s sure that the sounds are English and she knows English. It was her second language, she learned it- 

*** 

Natasha blinks away velvety darkness and can’t remember where she is for a moment. Dim room, sparsely furnished, with a little window in the door letting in light - maybe a hospital? The blankets are so heavy that she’s not sure she can move. Two men are watching her, an old one who looks uncertain and a bodyguard. Sleepy and confused, she asks the old man, “Who’re you?" 

He looks sick and falls back against his chair, shaking a little with emotion and that odd instability of the elderly. 

“It’s the sedative,” the guard says. “You should wait until it’s out of her system.” 

She doesn’t like being drugged. Feeling trapped, Natasha squirms an arm free of the blankets and pushes away from the men, twisting to try to escape the bed. Before she can even get fully onto her side, the Winter Soldier blocks her path, looking irritated and nudging her down on her back. Natalia flings her arm up to keep him away from her throat, crying out, "нет!" 

He easily catches her wrist. He doesn’t twist or break it, though, just pushes her arm down to lay flat on the bed at her side. “не двигайся,” he tells her, _don’t move_ , and she goes limp. 

“Bucky,” the old man says sharply. 

“I’m not hurting her,” the Soldier says defensively in English. He looks at her with glittering eyes and commands, “Just stay in bed.” He maneuvers her back into place gently and adjusts the pillow. She doesn’t resist, but she whimpers a little when his cold, metal hand brushes her face. The Soldier says nothing as he pulls the blankets over her and steps away from the bed. 

She lays in a daze, unhurt and confused. Her body feels far away. 

“Natasha,” the old man calls, and she closes her eyes, too tired for whatever he wants. They always- 

*** 

The low hiss of secretive, angry voices wakes Natasha. She’s warm, bundled up under layers of blankets, in a dim room. Blinking, she turns her head to the side just enough to see Bucky Barnes talking to an old man who is also Steve, the latter looking mutinous. Barnes notices her and tips his head in her direction so that Old Steve sees that she’s awake, too. Neither of them say anything as they stare at her. 

“You got old, Rogers,” Natasha observes tiredly. It’s hard to keep her eyes open. 

The lines in his face deepen and Old Steve looks so sad as he agrees, “Yeah. I did.” 

“We have to ask about the other sacrifices who need to be rescued,” Barnes interjects, his voice careful and urgent. “We need to know how much equipment to take to Vormir. How many people are we talking about? ” 

_Vormir. The others. The mission_. She has to think about it, count the survivors in her head: _Baldur, Gamora, Xinn, Ghezit_. “Four... No, the dog, five.” 

Barnes frowns, skeptical. “Really? Only six sacrifices in the history of the universe?” 

"No," Natasha says softly. "There were more." The awful knowledge bubbles up and overwhelms her all at once. They’re all gone, the children and the Lady and even stupid Breev. She knows that there was nothing to fear in sliding down into death, that they’re not hurting or scared or in pain, but she feels left behind and alone and can’t stand it. Suddenly she's crying, tears running down her temples and sliding into her hair as the sorrow pours out. 

"Natasha," Old Steve says shakily. He leans forward, reaching out with one hand to lightly touch her shoulder. "Are you alright?" 

"They chose peace," she tells him mournfully. “They’re gone.” 

His dry, withered fingers ghost over her hair and trace trembling down her cheek. "You chose to come back," he realizes with a hint of reverence. Then despair overtakes his features, and her eyes aren’t the only ones filled with grief. "Nat…" 

"You should sleep," Barnes says gently. "Both of you. Have this conversation in the morning when everyone will remember it." 

Old Steve looks as if he wants to object, but he subsides and nods reluctantly. Focusing on Natasha, he smiles and smoothes the backs of his fingers down her cheek again. "I'll stay 'til you're sleeping," he says firmly, somehow balancing Steve and Captain America and kindly grandfather, "and I'll make sure you're not alone when I go. You can rest, Nat. You’re safe." 

Natasha nods solemnly, blinking heavy eyes. With effort, she extricates the arm nearest him from the covers and reaches out. His hand is still strong and warm, large enough to engulf hers. Still Steve. A knot of tension unfurls inside of her, the simple touch giving her a sense of security that she didn't know she needed. Her eyes drift shut and- 

*** 

Natasha wakes slowly, with a clear head and fuzzy memories of the night before. Staying relaxed, she keeps her eyes closed and takes stock. Old Steve and Bucky Barnes watched over her for part of the night, asking questions that she can’t quite remember. She vaguely recalls something about being sedated, which would explain why the details are blurred into obscurity. On the bright side, her breathing is unobstructed and she isn't in any pain. The sheets are kind of scratchy, though. 

The sound of low, vaguely familiar voices speaking near the foot of her bed draws her attention. One is Sam, who was there for her arrival. “-still trying to figure that out,” he’s saying. “They’re saying maybe exposure to quantum whatever.” 

The second man, sounding stressed, asks, “But she’s still our Natasha? She remembers everything?” 

“She knew my name, nearly cried when she saw me,” Sam replies cautiously. “Knew Steve and was surprised he got old. Steve said she asked for Barton and even remembers being dead and in some kinda heaven." 

"Damn," the other man says softly, the sound of shifting fabric accompanied by a soft, mechanical whirring. "It's just hard to believe, looking at her.” 

Natasha waits for more, but they fall into silence. After a long moment, she opens her eyes and watches Sam startle. “Why?” she asks curiously, “What’s wrong with me?” 

Both men stare at her, suddenly tongue-tied. The new one is a little shorter than Sam, older and a bit darker-skinned. She immediately likes and trusts him, but doesn’t feel the elation that she experienced when she saw Sam for the first time. He must have been a survivor of Thanos’ attack. He’s wearing some kind of powered harness around his hips and legs - the source of the whirring sounds. That sparks something, an almost-memory of a body falling against a blue sky with white clouds, but she still doesn’t know who he is. 

_Why is it so difficult to connect names and faces?_

“Nat,” the new guy says firmly, projecting reassurance, “you’re okay. Nothing’s wrong with you.” 

“You say that,” Natasha observes thoughtfully, “but you’re not seeing what you expect when you look at me.” Pushing the blankets back with effort, she sits up in the bed and narrows her eyes at Sam. “And you were surprised that I know you, which makes no sense.” A nebulous suspicion begins to grow and she runs her fingertips lightly over her face. She finds nothing unusual - no obvious scar tissue or deformities, no numb or sore areas. Quantum exposure, Sam said. What would that do? “I don’t feel different… but I look different?” 

"You look younger," Clint says in a voice rough with emotion, stepping into the doorway. “A _lot_ younger.” He’s in worn jeans and layered flannel, like he came straight from working on the farm without bothering to change. His hair is growing in on the sides and cut shorter on top, the slight change making him look more like a dad than a vigilante. There's dried mud on his boots. 

Natasha files his 'younger' comment away for later. It's not important. The last time she saw Clint, she was wrenching herself free of his desperate grip on her arm to fall to her death. Judging by his haunted expression, hers was the easier path. "Clint, I-" 

"Stop," he demands hoarsely. He steps just far enough forward to clear the doorway and studies her with piercing eyes. Natasha lets him look his fill as she returns the favor, dimly aware of the others muttering something about the cafeteria and shuffling out of the room to leave the two of them alone. Her old partner looks sad and angry, both lighter and heavier than the last time she saw him. The darkest shadows of grief and despair are gone, but there's still a weight of guilt on his shoulders. He looks healthy and well-fed, but his eyes are bruised from sleepless nights. Abruptly, relief washes over him, his face crumpling as he finds what he's looking for. “Natasha,” Clint says helplessly. “Nat, what the hell?” 

He crosses the room in an almost violent burst of motion and she goes still, knowing he won’t hurt her and content to let him do what he needs to do. She’s expecting him to shake her or check her for hidden injuries, but he drops to sit on the side of the bed and drags her into his arms, tucking her against his chest like she's one of his kids. He smells like wood shavings. Clint presses his face into the crown of her head, a tremor running through him as he breathes out. "Don't ever do that to me again," he pleads, his voice thick with swallowed pain. 

"I had to," she protests, catching her fingers in the soft, worn fabric of his shirt. Her arms are pinned, but it’s kind of comforting to be held so close. She leans into him, shifting a little to be more comfortable. He’s warm, and she can hear his breathing catch in his chest as he tries not to cry. "Clint, you know I had to." 

He growls out a negative sound and squeezes firmly enough to make her ribs flex, but not quite enough to hurt. In a dark, tormented snarl, he bites out, "I watched you die, Nat. Watched your head crack on the stone and the life go out of you." His arms stay tight around her and one of his hands cups the back of her head as if he’s reassuring himself that there's no injury. “You said it was okay and then you-” 

"It _was_. It was okay," she insists. "It _worked_. Laura and the kids are alive, right?" Natasha pauses, and his silence speaks volumes. Wishing she could see his face, she softly says, "And I’m back, too, and nothing really bad happened to me. No harm, no foul.” He says nothing, but she can tell from his breathing how little he appreciates that sentiment. “I'm sorry you had to watch, but it was too fast to hurt. I didn't suffer, I promise, and after… It was peaceful." 

"Good," he mutters, some of the tension going out of him. "That's good." His arms loosen finally and he eases back, his calloused fingers smoothing her tangled hair. Scowling down at her half-seriously with wet eyes, he tells her, "I'm still really mad at you, kiddo." 

Natasha scowls right back. "You do not call me 'kiddo'." 

He laughs, sharp and still a little bitter. "You may want to look in a mirror, sweetheart." Standing, he holds out a hand. “Come on, I want to see your face when you get a look at yourself.” 

_Younger_ , she thinks warily. Natasha takes his hand and lets him tug her out of the bed and lead her toward the en suite bathroom. The mirror is set into the wall facing the door, so she understands what has everyone so surprised the moment Clint flips on the light. Even though she can’t really remember how she _should_ look, she knows that the image in front of her is wrong. 

“But I don’t feel different,” she whispers, fighting a fluttering of panic. The wide-eyed child in the mirror is in her mid-teens, fifteen or sixteen, maybe? She pulls the collar of the blue hospital gown away from her chest and peers down to assess what she can see of herself, ignoring Clint's amused snort. _Closer to fifteen_ , she thinks. Before she fell, she was very much an adult. She hasn't given her body a thought since she died, but the difference is glaringly obvious. Even her scars - she knows she had them, though she can’t quite recall where they should be - even her scars are gone, every inch of her pale skin smooth and unmarred. How did she not notice that her body had changed so much? When did it happen? 

“Natasha,” Clint says urgently, his smile fading, but stops when she shakes her head. It doesn’t matter; he won’t judge her for her reaction, not really. He’s just worried. 

Focusing on her breathing, Natasha centers herself and takes a step forward, studying her reflection more intently. Her body _is_ young, but the hospital gown makes her look smaller and more vulnerable than she probably is, especially next to fully-dressed Clint. Her mouth is familiar, and her eyes. Her hair is bright red and falls past her shoulders. She thinks that this must be her natural color, but she used to dye it in different shades; she doesn't remember why. "It’s fine," she says honestly, though she’s still a little shaken. "I don't care what I look like." 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Clint says thoughtfully. “But since it’s just us, Nat, be straight with me. Are you going to be okay?” 

“I can make it work.” Natasha glances over her shoulder to give him a quelling look. “That pet name thing still isn't happening, by the way.” He scoffs out a laugh. Casually, she asks, “Can you get me clothes? Real clothes, not hospital stuff.” 

Clint narrows his eyes, but nods obligingly. “Sure, no problem. I’ll be back in twenty.” He disappears from the doorway and his quiet footsteps move through the room beyond. Hearing the door of the bedroom close behind him, she exhales slowly. 

She lets herself have just a moment to close her eyes, stand still, and try to level out. The bathroom light is too bright against her eyelids, the tile hard and cold under her feet. Breathing out slowly, she looks at the girl in the mirror again. Her physical age shouldn’t interfere with rescuing the others - that’s the most important thing. She glances around the bathroom, cataloguing the appliances and supplies available. Everything seems… straightforward. She has no idea how much time Clint’s ‘twenty’ actually is, so better get to it. 

She remembers with strange clarity that washing her hair means it will frizz, and that she needs things, hair products, to prevent that. She can’t remember the products, though, and the shower only has shampoo and conditioner. Best make do. When she’s clean and dry, she brushes her teeth and runs her fingers through her wet hair to detangle and separate the curls. Deciding against putting the gown back on, she leaves the bathroom wrapped in a towel to ward off the chill of the air. 

Clint is already waiting, lounging in the chair beside the bed. “Hey,” he says, gesturing toward a bundle of fabric that stands out dark against the white blankets. “Clothes. Had to borrow stuff, no one thought to get anything for you yet.” 

Natasha nods and pads over to examine what he’s found. Nearly-new blue jeans, a black t-shirt, black socks and clean but not new green panties. She wonders who he borrowed the underwear from. At the bottom of the pile is a blue hoodie that the younger version of Steve could have worn comfortably. Natasha drops the towel and dresses quickly, shivering a little as her damp skin prickles in the cool air. Everything is on the baggy side and the pants are long enough that she has to roll them. The sleeves of the hoodie also have to be rolled up so they don’t fall over her hands. When she zips it almost all the way up, it swallows her down past her hips. It’s so warm, it's perfect. 

“Thanks,” she says gratefully, pulling her hair free of her clothes and stooping to pick up the wet towel. 

The idiot responds by standing and patting her on the head as if he has some kind of death wish. "Anything for you, babyface." 

She doesn't punch him in the arm, but it's a near thing. " _Clint_." 

"Yeah, sorry." He's clearly not, but he shrugs in the not-apologetic way that tells her he won't do it again and she's mollified. It's not the first time that he's pushed at her boundaries after a near-death experience, and this time he has more reason than usual. Clint rolls his head to the side, studying her, and says, “I’m guessing you’re ready to get out of here.” 

“Yeah,” she replies. Stepping into the bathroom, she drapes the towel over the bar near the door before turning back to him. “We’ve got a rescue mission. I’ll fill you in while we track down Sam - he should know what’s going on.” 

“He’s in the cafeteria,” Clint says. “That’s where the brains have set up.” He nods his head towards the door and leads the way out. 

“This isn’t a hospital,” Natasha observes as they step into what looks like a large office or small lobby. The floor is smooth wood except for a large, ornate rug under the glass-topped executive desk to their right. To the left is the exit and the other two walls have more rooms with beds, as well as a marked bathroom. The surface of the desk is clean and the ‘Employees Only’ door behind it is ajar, revealing a room with neatly organized supplies on metal shelves. Despite seeming to be well-stocked, the place has a strangely abandoned look. 

Clint heads through the exit of the clinic - labelled as a nurse’s office - and into an airy hallway with light wood panelling and pale carpet. 

“It was an orphanage,” Clint explains. “Used to be a rehab resort for the jet set, but I guess Stark and Potts bought it after the Decimation and opened it up to teenagers who lost their families. Now that everyone’s back, it emptied out pretty quick. The rehab people who got snapped back didn’t stick around, either, so Pepper offered it to Sam and the others who were gone for five years and had nowhere to go. We’re just up the road from the upstate base, actually.” 

“Why aren’t we at the base?” she asks. 

There’s a hesitation in his step, and he’s slow to answer. “I guess they didn’t have the chance to tell you,” he says, “It’s gone; got blown up when…” He trails off and stops walking. His expression is strange and tense. 

“Clint?” 

“You missed a lot, Nat,” he says unhappily as he turns to face her. “After Bruce snapped everyone back, the Thanos from 2014 came forward through the time portal and we had to fight him again. The base was totally destroyed. And Tony… Nat, Tony’s dead.” 

*** 

The cafeteria is a spacious room with a high ceiling and one wall all made of windows, the view overlooking a lake. Long, white-topped tables in four rows run the length of the room with lines of bright green, metal-legged, plastic chairs flanking them. In the middle of the room, the pattern has been disrupted. Two of the tables have been moved out of one row, pushed back to make room for a bunch of computer equipment and unidentifiable tech. Thick cables run across the center aisle, connecting the equipment to some more computers and a bank of monitors arranged on one table into a makeshift workspace. 

There are six people waiting for them in the large room, talking animatedly. Natasha knows Sam and Bruce, and she finally remembers that the man with the powered harness is Jim Rhodes, the War Machine. Weirdly, she feels like he should be more blue. The other three - an older couple and a dark-haired woman about the same age as Natasha used to be - don’t seem familiar. They all stop their conversation and turn when Clint and Natasha enter and head toward them. 

Sam and Rhodey approach immediately, intercepting them halfway to the others. They look at her with uncertainty and something too wary to be hope, then turn to Clint for confirmation. “Yeah,” he says firmly, without any other explanation. 

“Hi Rhodey,” Natasha says, smiling despite her lingering unease. It's so good to see them. Even if her memory is unreliable and she isn't quite the way she should be, her heart still knows her friends. “Hi Sam.” 

“Thank god,” Rhodey mutters fervently, stepping forward to hug her. He’s more restrained than Clint was, but there’s still a hint of a tremor in him when she returns the embrace. 

Sam takes his turn as soon as Rhodey lets her go. He holds her more tightly but for less time, and seems to want to keep touching her after he steps back, like he can't quite believe she's real. “Nice to see you in red again, Romanoff,” he says, lightly tugging the lock of hair that’s fallen over her shoulder. 

“Nat,” Bruce calls nervously, drawing their attention. He hasn’t moved since she entered the room, and he seems awkward and uneasy. He looks at her like he’s searching for something. “How are you feeling? Come over here, sit down.” He drags a plastic chair over, setting it in the middle of the center aisle, amongst the cables, and watches her expectantly. 

The sight of the chair surrounded by cables and strangers makes her suddenly nervous. She glances at Clint, who gives a barely perceptible nod. This is expected. This is safe. She makes her way over with the guys trailing behind her and obediently sits. Answering Bruce’s question, she says, “I feel okay.” 

"She doesn't know why she's a kid," Clint says. 

Sam hands her a bottle of water. She startles herself slightly by reflexively twisting off the cap; apparently, her muscle memory is still intact. Natasha takes a sip and finds that the water is warm and tastes flat and a little metallic, very different from the water she’s used to. It hardly matters as she realizes how thirsty she is. It’s only her recent experience with near-drowning that prevents her from just tipping the bottle back. Still, she quickly downs half the water before she has to stop drinking and breathe. 

“Hey, take it slow,” Sam cautions. “Are you hungry?” 

“I don’t think so,” she says. Clint gives her an odd look, and she shrugs a little self-consciously. “Maybe?” 

“I’ll grab you a jello,” Rhodey announces, shifting toward the end of the room with a door marked ‘Kitchen’. “There’s a ton of the stuff-” 

“It can wait.” The silver-haired and bearded man is sitting in an office chair, his back to a bunch of monitors perched on a long table. He’s nicely dressed. His clothes and shoes look new. His eyes are intense behind his glasses, and he wears an air of frustration like other people wear scars. His left knee is in a brace and there’s a cane leaning against the table near him. “So,” he says. “Natasha Romanoff.” 

He doesn’t seem even slightly familiar, so she gambles and says, “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.” 

“This is Dr. Hank Pym, Dr. Janet van Dyne, and Hope van Dyne, also known as the Wasp,” Bruce explains helpfully, pointing out each of the strangers in turn. The two women are more casually dressed than Pym, both in jeans. The older, silver-haired one wears a dressier top while the younger has on a t-shirt and gray hoodie. Though the resemblance isn’t strong, it and the shared last name are enough to guess that they’re likely mother and daughter. “They helped to examine you last night, to make sure that you weren’t…” - he awkwardly gestures to indicate her body as a whole - “...like _that_ because of exposure to the quantum realm.” 

It would be nice to have an easy explanation, but that doesn’t sound right. She would have _noticed_ if she changed between Vormir and Midgard. Still, she asks, “Is that what happened?” 

“No,” Bruce replies. “No quantum contamination whatsoever. The suit did its job.” 

“So what did happen?” 

“We were hoping you would know,” Dr. Pym says grumpily. He indicates the computer screen behind him, and she notices the time-space GPS wristband sitting on the tabletop. “According to the suit, this data is an unbroken recording of about nineteen hours, starting when Natasha Romanoff left 2023 a few weeks ago and ending shortly after your arrival yesterday.” He taps his finger against the screen, where several long line graphs are stacked on top of each other. “Here’s the travel from 2023 to 2014. Her vitals here reflect the slightly higher gravity of Morag. Here’s the trip to Vormir, the exertion of climbing a mountain. Here’s a brief period of calm at the top followed by a flurry of activity. An injury to her ribs, and then her right arm. Here’s where she fell.” He glances at Natasha as his finger hovers over a spike in her vitals before the line goes flat. “She died instantly on impact.” 

“Yes,” Natasha agrees. Her mouth is dry, her hands curled stiffly around the water bottle. Everyone else is silent, watching Dr. Pym, watching her. 

Dr. Pym’s finger traces the flat line as he continues, “Nothing worth talking about happens for 47 minutes. Then, out of nowhere, everything changes.” His finger jabs accusingly at each graph from top to bottom as he says, “Suddenly it’s 2018, the same moment that other data indicates that Thanos destroyed the Infinity Stones. No sign of time dilation or quantum shift. Location relative to the planet changes by several meters. Vitals are back, showing acute distress but with no sign of the injuries to the ribs and arm, and the whole shape of your body is different, smaller. Brain activity - and this is only a surface level reading, I’d love to have a more complete view - is radically divergent for about three minutes, but stabilizes to something approaching pre-death normal after that. Fifty-eight minutes later, after some moderate exertion and slowly decreasing O2 saturation, you adjusted the chronometer and travelled to yesterday, only to rapidly decline and pass out. Fortunately, one of your friends has a wizard on speed-dial, and he was able to remove the fluid from your lungs and save you from drowning.” 

“Yeah, good thing Harry Potter makes house calls,” Sam says, trying to be funny but sounding a little shaky. Natasha manages to smile weakly at him. 

Ignoring the interjection, Pym spins in his chair to face her, the movement slightly awkward because of his injured knee. “We ran every test we could think of while you were unconscious. Genetically, you’re identical to Natasha Romanoff. You’re in almost perfect health. No scars, no sign of ever having a broken bone or serious injury. Your teeth are flawless and match her dental records for placement - good, but _not_ perfect - your hair is apparently the same length, and your muscular development is consistent with someone who trains in martial arts.” 

Uncertainly, Natasha asks, “Does that mean that you don’t think I’m me? Or that you do?” Clint’s hand comes to rest on her shoulder, and she doesn’t even need to look at him to know he’s trying to be supportive but he isn’t entirely sure, either. He wants her to be real too badly to trust that she is. 

“Damned if I know,” Pym admits. “I’m not sure that such a thing as conclusive data exists, considering that reality can be manipulated on a cosmic scale by pretty rocks.” 

“Hank,” Dr. van Dyne chides gently. The look she gives Dr. Pym is equal parts affection and exasperation. 

He melts like butter, visibly softening under her regard. Interesting. And now that Natasha looks, there’s some resemblance between him and Hope as well. “Well, I’ve apparently been dust for five years, so it would be a bit hypocritical to say resurrection is impossible,” the old man grumbles. “Unless something changes, we’ll just have to work on the theory that you are Natasha Romanoff returned from the dead.” 

“I am,” Natasha says. She’s sure of that much, at least. “I’m not sure I can prove it, though.” 

“We’re not asking you to prove it,” Rhodey says reassuringly. “We’re just glad to have you back.” 

“But we are going to treat you with a little caution for a bit,” Sam says. “No offense, you’d kick my ass if I took it for granted that you were completely trustworthy when there’s still a lot we don’t know about _how_ you came back.” 

“Right now, our hypothesis is that the destruction of the Infinity Stones somehow released you and the other sacrifices, since the timing of the event and the description you gave Captain Rogers match up,” Dr. van Dyne offers, stepping forward. Her smile is kind and genuine, but there’s a thoughtful intelligence in her blue eyes. “That doesn’t explain your apparent age, of course.” 

“I wish I could explain, but I don’t remember when I changed,” Natasha admits. Then, because the age issue really isn’t important compared to the mission, she asks, “What about the others? I have to go back for them. They’re stuck in a cave, with no food and no way off Vormir.” 

“And we’re absolutely going to help them once we get some new suits made,” Sam reassures her, “but we’ll be sending someone else, Natasha. You’ve done your part.” 

“It has to be me,” Natasha insists. “They know and trust me. If I don’t go, you’ll have to waste time talking them around.” She takes a breath, determined not to sound like a stubborn teenager, and she’s careful to keep her voice calm and reasonable as she points out, “I’m not sick anymore, Sam. I know I gave you guys a scare, but I’m fine now.” 

Sam looks to Clint for support. “Barton-” 

“Don’t drag me into this,” the archer cuts him off quickly, his hand falling away from her shoulder. “I’ve got no say.” 

“You can give your opinion, Clint,” Natasha says with deliberate calm as she twists in the chair to look up at him. “I’m not going to bite your head off.” 

Clint fixes her with a perfectly neutral look, but she can hear the tension in his voice when he carefully says, "Alright. I'd be a lot happier if you didn't go back to the place where you _died_ , Natasha." 

“Me too,” she admits, “but I have to. They’re my friends.” 

“Sam,” Rhodey says, giving the other man a meaningful look. 

“...Alright, I can tell when I’m not going to win,” Sam concedes, pursing his lips unhappily, “but you’re not going alone, Nat.” 

Nodding, Natasha looks to Clint again and ventures, “You could come along.” 

He shakes his head, expression shuttered and eyes haunted. “No. I’d be worse than useless. My mind wouldn’t be on the mission.” 

“I’ll go,” Rhodey says quickly. “I’ve been in space before.” 

“Great,” Dr. Pym barks. “Now that that’s settled, let’s get down to brass tacks. Barnes reported that we’re rescuing four aliens and a dog, is that right?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Natasha's reaction to sedatives is based on a relative's response after surgery - repeating questions, drifting in and out of sleep, forgetting who was in the room, trying to get out of bed despite that being a profoundly bad idea. From Nat's point of view, it's a hazy memory. For Steve, it maybe hits a little too close to home.
> 
> Next Chapter: Mission prep, introspection, and a side-quest.


	5. Family

Natasha goes through three cups of red jello, a second bottle of water, and a bathroom break while the details of the Vormir rescue are hammered out. Everyone but Clint and Bruce calls her Romanoff at least once. It's not that she doesn't recognize it as her name - she does - but it's odd to hear after being just Natasha for so long. 

The planning is very straight-forward; they already have the coordinates, the team, and the intel, so all they need is the equipment. Bruce will make a run to visit Pepper Potts at her home, where Tony’s last workshop is still set up in the garage. There, he can generate new quantum suits in a matter of hours. The platform in the woods will suffice for their purposes, and they have more than enough Pym particles to accommodate five one-way and two round trips. Janet raises concerns about medical care for the aliens, but since Bruce will already be calling Valkyrie of New Asgard to let her know about Baldur (he thinks she'll be very interested to hear of an Aesir child in peril), he'll also ask for Asgardian healers familiar with non-human physiology. 

By ten AM, there’s nothing for Natasha to do but wait for all of the pieces to come together. The mission will be complete by noon the next day if all goes well. In the meantime, there is a necessary though less vital task to occupy her time. 

“I don’t like this,” Clint says, arms crossed as he glowers at the vehicle parked in front of the building’s elegant entryway. 

“It’ll be fine," Natasha assures him. "Nothing’s going to happen.” 

“Nat.” His eyes are steady and intent, but she can see the anxiety lurking within. Despite being resigned to her return to Vormir, he’s having trouble with the idea of letting her out of his sight for any other reason. She's sympathetic, but she's not the one calling the shots. Also, she's a little worried about her own inclination to let him shepherd her around. She didn't used to be clingy, as far as she can remember. 

“We’re just going into town for shopping and lunch,” Janet van Dyne points out. She's standing by the passenger side of the red rental car, trying to be nice but clearly exasperated. “Do you really want to hang around outside the changing rooms while we buy underwear for a teenage girl?” 

“I’ve been through worse,” he replies, his smirk not reaching his eyes. 

Completely serious, Hope pledges, “I promise to bring her back in one piece, Hawkeye.” 

“Clint,” Natasha begins. Then she stops, not sure what she can say. 

"It'll be four hours, tops," Janet says firmly. Tart but not exactly mocking, she adds, "If you like, we can call every hour to check in." 

He makes a face, obviously not amused, but his stance shifts a little as he regards the women. "Every hour," he says, directing the order at Hope, who nods with every appearance of accepting a command from a superior officer. Turning his gaze to Natasha, he frowns, still unhappy. "Nat…" 

She hugs him because it seems like the right thing to do, and feels him sigh as he hugs her back. 

*** 

The mall is overwhelming. It's bursting with red and white and green Christmas decorations, adding visual noise and jangling holiday carols to the overall assault on the senses. There are so _many_ people, and part of Natasha wants to track them all at once. Dozens of voices echo all around, more than she’s heard in her entire time in the garden or the five years before. The contrast to her distant memory of the living world is unnerving. 

She forces herself to focus on the people close to her in physical age, examining their mannerisms, clothing, and speech. Even with a mission, she finds herself increasingly on edge. Hope seems to be taking her bodyguard duties seriously, but she’s essentially a stranger and it’s hard to rely on her without having a good handle on her capabilities. Helpfully, Janet does most of the talking. 

Socks and shoes are first. Natasha is young enough to get by with just two pairs of athletic shoes for the moment, and it's a real relief to have footwear that fits. 

Next is underwear, and there's a harried mother with three daughters on hand to provide some loud, unintentional guidance on what's appropriate for a fifteen year old. This is where Natasha begins to notice something that will become more obvious with every store they visit: there is a severe shortage of stock. Many sizes and styles are sold out completely or down to one or two items, and half the store is made up of empty racks. There is no sale section - or rather, it's completely barren, already picked clean. The available options are extremely limited. 

Natasha is thankfully spared the indignity of a training bra or mismatched underwear, but what she gets is still clearly intended for a young girl. It's all very cute, and she doesn't need specific memories to know that she'll never hear the end of it if Clint or Sam find out about the rainbows. She reminds herself that she's more concerned with mobility and comfort than appearance. It's not as if anyone who sees her in her bra and panties is going to live to tell the tale. 

As they go from store to store, picking through what's left behind, Natasha pieces together an outfit from their purchases. It's nothing fancy, just jeans and the layered shirts that seem to be in style. She feels better once she blends in and no longer draws curious eyes, though it’s still stressful to be surrounded. By the time the shopping is done, she has enough clothes for two weeks, a hefty bag of toiletries, and a decent coat to replace her hoodie. She’s also mentally exhausted and ready to return to the new base. 

“We’ll just get lunch before we head back,” Janet says, guiding them toward the food court that they’ve already passed twice. It’s a bit past one PM and the crowd is starting to thin out, almost half of the tables unoccupied. “Something quick. Any preference, Natasha?” Receiving a negative head shake, she turns to her daughter and asks, “Hope, could you get something that won’t be too heavy? We’ll find somewhere to sit.” 

Hope gives her mother a speaking look, but heads off willingly enough. Janet and Natasha claim an out of the way corner booth, placing the bags between them. The older woman scans the crowd with a trained eye before glancing at her charge and smiling. “You have a good eye for blending in. You look like any other teenage girl.” 

Natasha shrugs, half of her attention on the smattering of teens who are still lingering over lunch, particularly the ones who are sitting with adults. “I was a spy once.” 

Janet hums thoughtfully. “You know, I’ve had to shop for whole new wardrobes twice in the last few months - subjectively, of course - after being in exile for decades and then getting snapped out of existence right after I got back. It was surprisingly difficult, even though I used to consider myself quite fashionable.” 

“I wasn’t snapped,” Natasha points out. 

“No, but I doubt you were keeping up with teenage style trends before today.” 

Natasha affects an expression of polite boredom and slouches a little more as she concedes the point with a shrug. 

“Even the body language,” Janet marvels, amused. “Do you really want people to think you're that grumpy about shopping with your poor old grandmother?” 

“Too sullen, you think?” 

“No, not really. I imagine that Hope was much worse at your age.” 

“Thank you for this,” Natasha says earnestly. She needs something to do with her hands, so she tugs a napkin from the dispenser and begins to carefully shred it like the bored preteen three tables over. “You really didn’t have to go to the trouble.” 

"To be honest, I wanted the chance to talk to you alone." 

Natasha raises an eyebrow - a silent encouragement to explain. 

Janet tips her head to the side, considering the girl. “Did you know that I was trapped in the Quantum realm for thirty years?” 

“No, I didn’t.” 

"I know what it's like to feel like you don’t belong in this world. The Avengers think you’re reacting to the trauma of dying, but that’s not quite right, is it?” The woman sits forward, speaking quietly and with genuine compassion. “Captain Rogers told everyone that you were in a peaceful place. He described it as heaven. Maybe heaven is so different that this world seems alien, but I think it goes deeper.” She lays a hand lightly over Natasha’s on the table and implores, “I want to help you. We all do. But we need to understand what’s wrong first.” 

Natasha schools her features into neutrality and studies the silver-haired woman carefully. Before she died, a stranger wouldn’t have been able to read her so easily. There’s an impulse to deflect, but maybe she shouldn’t. She lost more of her past than she realized when she was in the stone. It’s as if her life has become an op with insufficient intel - her mistakes are only going to become more obvious as time goes on. Maybe it would be easier to tell someone with no expectations before trying to explain to her friends. Focusing on analyzing Janet’s reactions, she ventures, “It’s my memories. When I was in the stone… I didn’t want to forget the reason I sacrificed myself. I didn’t want to forget my family. I tried to hold on, but...” She lets her face show her unhappiness, her knowledge of failing. “Some things are easy. Some people are familiar, I don’t even have to think about knowing them. Other things, I’m not sure I ever knew at all. It’s been such a long time.” 

Janet’s eyes have gone fractionally wider - that wasn’t the response she was expecting. Shrewdly, the older woman asks, “Longer than four years?” 

Natasha nods after only a moment’s hesitation. 

Janet looks like she’s running through calculations in her head as she understands, “Time moved differently for you. Faster.” 

“Sort of.” Natasha gently dislodges her hand from under Janet’s so she can return to tearing up the napkin. Hope will be back soon - a quick glance across the food court finds her waiting for their order with a receipt in hand and her cell phone pressed to her ear. “So. You were away for thirty years?” 

Janet nods absently, but takes this as a cue to share. “Hope was seven when I was lost. Coming back, it's hard to figure out where you fit in people's lives. Sometimes they want you to fill spaces you've grown out of.” She dips her head to acknowledge, “Of course, it goes both ways. Finding Hope all grown up… Well, I knew she would be, but it’s difficult. I see echoes of the little girl she was, but it doesn’t make up for what we missed.” Her smile is bittersweet. “Junior high, high school, her first boyfriend, her prom, college. Even simple things like visiting the mall. I never had the chance to take Hope shopping as a teenager. She hardly needs a mother anymore.” 

“She may not need you, but she seems happy to have you,” Natasha points out. It’s true - the way Hope looks at Janet is wondrous and adoring, even in simple interactions. Scraping the tiny squares of napkin into a little heap, she asks, “Is it enough? Just coming back?” 

“Maybe.” Janet looks out pensively over the crowds of shoppers. “In a way, I feel like I didn’t. I’ve changed so much that this world feels foreign. The pace of everything is wrong.” 

“Yeah,” Natasha agrees. “But it gets better, right?” 

The older woman meets her eyes and smiles, kindly but with a tightness that wasn’t there before. “I think you should talk to your friends and let them know what you’re going through,” she advises. “It’s important that you’re as honest as possible about your condition. What happened to you could have repercussions that we can’t predict. Just being in the quantum realm altered me in ways that I’m still exploring. Your death and resurrection are connected to an Infinity Stone, and no one can guess what that might mean.” She raises a hand to wave her tray-bearing daughter over. As a last word, Janet adds, “Just try to remember that you don't have to be exactly the same person you were when you died.” 

Natasha watches Hope beam and quicken her step when she sees her mother. She thinks about Clint’s desperate embrace and wonders, _Don’t I_? 

*** 

Natasha has been given the room right next door to Clint’s. It's pretty basic, with the same plain, sturdy furniture as every other room in the dorms. There are a few signs of the previous occupant - some dents and nicks in the walls and furniture, mis-matched hangers in the closet, a small, multi-colored rug by the bed, and a whole drawer of forgotten clothing - soft, worn t-shirts and boxers. She puts her clothes away neatly in another drawer, dropping her newly-purchased duffel bag on top of the dresser. She’ll be able to pack quickly if she has to, which is comforting even if she doesn’t really understand the impulse. 

Her only task complete, she sits on the bed, made up for her with bland, institutional sheets. It stirs… not a memory, but maybe a sad sort of nostalgia. She frowns and focuses on the rug under her feet, tracing a sneakered toe along the border between red and gold stripes. A few weeks ago, this room was the refuge, the home, of an orphaned teenager. Logically, she knows that the kid has moved on and is probably back with family, but it still feels like she's intruding on their space somehow. They've left behind more than she owns. 

It makes her wonder about what was lost when the Avengers base was destroyed. She lived there for the last five years of her life; she must have had possessions, even though she can't remember anything in particular. Clothes, weapons… Things that were hers. Then again, maybe it's better not to know if there was something irreplaceable or precious, so she can't miss it. 

A quick burst of noise from the door makes her jump - someone knocking. She pops up and crosses the room quickly, not at all surprised to find Clint there when she opens it. "Hey," he says, as if he hadn't seen her only a little while ago when he showed her their rooms. "Wanda just got here with Steve and Barnes. You up to saying hi?" 

"Yeah, of course." She steps out of the room to join Clint and is a little surprised to see that it's fully dark outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the hallway. It hadn't seemed that late when they returned from the mall. 

_Wanda_. As they walk, Natasha scrambles to remember what she knows about Wanda Maximoff. She was Sokovian, an Avenger after the Ultron incident, and lost her brother in that fight. She was powerful, could move things with her mind, and was romantically involved with Tony’s android, Vision. She was on Steve's side in the fight over the Accords, and she saved Natasha's life in the battle of Wakanda. Then Thanos erased her from existence with a snap of his fingers. 

They find the three visitors - elderly Steve with his metal-armed shadow and the woman who must be Wanda - by the building's main entrance, in the two-story atrium that serves as a lobby. Natasha and Clint enter the room on the second floor. Down on the ground level, Wanda puts a hand over her mouth in shock as they make their way along the walkway to the staircase. 

Bucky hangs back as Steve moves to meet Natasha at the base of the stairs. The former Winter Soldier shows no particular interest beyond a polite nod. That’s fine - she feels pretty neutral toward him as well. 

Old Steve beams at her as she comes down ahead of Clint, and Natasha grins in response. There’s no worry or doubt in him - he knows her like she knows him despite the years between them, and he radiates pure joy to see her alive. He meets her with a hug when she reaches the last step, so he doesn't have to stoop quite as far. There's still a surprising, wiry strength in him, and a solidity that she happily leans into. With more experience in touching the living, it’s really noticeable how much warmer he is than normal people. “Hi Nat,” he says. 

“Hi Steve,” she mumbles into his sweater. “You smell old.” 

He chuckles, patting her on the back and stepping away slowly so she can settle back on her own feet. He keeps his hands on her shoulders as he looks at her with misty affection. “Well, I come by that honestly, at least.” Then he looks past her, up the stairs, to say, “Hello, Clint.” 

“Cap,” Clint says in a controlled voice. “Been a while, I guess.” 

"That it has," Steve agrees. "How's the family?" He lets her go with a last little squeeze. 

"Better," Clint replies a little grudgingly. 

She sidesteps the aging super soldier and approaches the final guest, who watches her with fascination. Natasha feels like she’s getting a bit better at recognizing her old friends. It helps that Clint told her who to expect, but she thinks she might have known this one regardless. There's a strange, distinctive weight to her presence. Natasha halts a little closer than an arm's length away, stopped by an intuition or faint recollection that the young woman prefers not to be touched. “Wanda,” she says fondly. “I’m glad you’re back.” 

“You too,” the woman replies with a slightly tremulous smile. It’s honest - Wanda truly seems happy to see her - but there’s a deep sadness that hangs over her like a shroud. She’s still mourning. 

_Oh_. Yes, of course she is. Natasha's happiness slips away into sorrow as she realizes that the android Wanda loved held the Mind Stone. He would have died only a few weeks ago from the perspective of someone who was erased by Thanos. "I'm sorry," she says quietly. "We didn't bring Vision back, did we?" 

Wanda looks even sadder, but she smiles through teary eyes. "No," she confirms, voice steady but raw with emotion, "but thank you for thinking of him." 

Natasha nods solemnly. "Are you okay? You're not staying here with Sam and the others." 

"No," she confirms. "I've needed some space to think and to grieve. Not only for Viz." Reaching out, Wanda touches Natasha's cheek lightly, just the barest brush of fingertips. Her eyes are brown with a hint of a crimson sheen - the visible manifestation of her powers. Softly, she observes, "Dying… it changed you... and not just your appearance." 

"I know." It's true - Natasha just wishes she knew how much. 

“Hey,” Sam calls as he enters the atrium from the direction of the cafeteria. “We’re ordering Chinese and pizza - who wants what?” 

*** 

Dr. Pym and the van Dynes choose to go into town rather than joining the rest of the group for dinner, and Bruce is running late. Everyone else gathers in one of the recreation rooms instead of the echoing cafeteria. It’s a cozier setting, the round table more than large enough for the seven of them. The surface is covered in boxes of food, water bottles, liters of soda and plastic cups. Pizza is amazing, though the thing Clint says is her favorite Chinese food is also very good. 

For a few hours, the conversation flows back and forth, weaving through a dozen different topics. The others get Natasha somewhat caught up on events since half the universe’s population returned in the so-called Blip. There have been difficulties in finding food and shelter for more than three and a half billion extra people, but the world has largely accepted it as a joyous, miraculous event. Some of the more elaborate tributes and monuments to Tony’s memory even border on the religious. They all agree that he would have been insufferable about it. 

Somehow they turn to sharing reminisces about the ‘good old days’ of the Avengers. Natasha is quiet, just absorbing the hundreds of little details that slipped away while she was dead. She’d forgotten about Vision’s habit of entering rooms through walls and the name of Tony’s chauffeur and everyone trying to lift Thor’s hammer and failing. She remembered that Wanda had a brother once, but forgot his name and that Clint’s son Nathaniel was Pietro's namesake as well as Natasha’s. The others mostly let her listen as they unwittingly fill in the blanks in her head, though Sam unsubtly tries to encourage her to engage more. She contributes to the discussion when she can to placate him, and Steve is so helpful in running interference for the lapses in her memory that he may even be doing it intentionally. It only helps so much - Clint's gaze is weighing more and more heavily on her as the evening wears on. She’ll have to talk to him soon. 

“Hey, everyone,” Bruce says from the doorway. It's fascinating to see him shimmy through a standard-sized door. It looks incredibly awkward, but he seems to have mastered the maneuver. Nothing is damaged, at any rate - he’s very careful with the clinking canvas bag he carries. “Why aren’t you guys eating in the cafeteria?” 

"Too empty," Sam says, setting his cup of Coke down. "Everything go okay?" 

"Yep. I dropped off the new suits with the rest of the gear - they're pre-calibrated and locked, so we're all set for tomorrow.” Bruce eyes the furniture and decides to settle on the floor instead, placing the bag beside him. “Pepper was really happy to hear that you’re back, Nat. She sent along some wine and an early Christmas present.” He pulls a slim, flat, black object from his pocket and hands it to her before turning to the bag and pulling out bottles to set on the table. 

"A phone?" It's a Starkphone, all sleek, elegant lines. It lights up in blue at her touch, and after a moment, text appears on the screen: Hello, Agent Romanoff. When it fades, the screen displays a dense arrangement of blue icons on a dark background. 

"Now you've done it," Rhodey groans, "putting a phone in the hands of a teenage girl." 

“Friday suggested it,” Bruce explains as he reaches over to delicately pluck a large container of fried rice from the table. “Your old one was destroyed, but you were on Tony's secure servers, so she was able to create a clone. It's all there: settings, passwords… well, whatever you had saved to your profile while you were living at the compound.” 

She’s surprised by how much a simple device means to her, but it’s access to more of her old self than she had when she woke up that morning. Her throat hurts and she has to try twice before she can say, “Thank you.” 

"Nat," Clint says, and she tears her eyes away from the screen to see him giving her a slightly concerned look. 

“Pinot Noir. Oh, this is some of the good stuff,” Rhodey observes as he examines one of the bottles. “Too bad Nat can't have any.” 

“I can’t?” She slides the phone into the pocket of her hoodie to examine later. 

“Why not?” Bruce asks, picking up another bottle and glancing around. “Do we- We don’t have wine glasses, are we putting this in plastic cups?” 

“She’s under twenty-one,” Rhodey says smugly. “You don’t have to drink out of a plastic cup if you don’t want to, Bruce. More for the rest of us.” 

Bucky snorts. “Pretty sure Russians get straight vodka in their baby bottles, so I don’t see-” 

“Don’t, Nat,” Steve cautions, “you’ll stunt your growth.” 

Natasha narrows her eyes at the super soldier, trying to decide if he’s serious. 

Wanda bursts into brief but honest laughter. Waving a beringed hand at the startled group, she says, “I’m sorry. It’s funny to have this directed at Natasha, of all people.” She smiles impishly at the redhead, gently teasing, “Now you see what it's like to be the baby of the family.” 

“Ha,” Rhodey chuckles, but says, “Check your Avengers history. Nat was the youngest of the original bunch by a pretty wide margin.” 

Bruce frowns. "Steve was younger, wasn't he?" 

“You kidding?” Bucky asks incredulously. “The punk was born in 1918.” 

“Yeah,” Sam says, “you have to count ice time.” 

“Well, if you don’t, we were almost the same age,” Steve muses. “I was nearly twenty-seven when I went into the ice and had a few months out before Loki. You were born in November 1984, right? So…” 

“Hold on,” Clint interrupts, “we just picked that date for her SHIELD paperwork, so don't go counting days. Hell, the year might not even be right.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam says. “Ice time is formative, you can’t ignore it.” 

"Here," Bruce says, placing a half-full cup of wine in front of Natasha and waving off Steve's glower. "Come on, a little bit won't do any harm. You’re not her father, Steve." 

“Grandfather,” Bucky mutters into his beer. 

“He’s old enough to be,” Sam says casually, “though that’s a pretty low bar. Hell, you could be her grandfather too, Doctor Banner. You’re what, mid-fifties?” Turning to Natasha while Bruce sputters, he asks, “How old are you, exactly?” 

“Fifteen, I think,” Natasha replies, sipping the wine. The taste is interesting, but it makes her mouth a bit dry and she switches back to water. “It’s hard to be sure, but I think I was more developed at sixteen.” 

“Okay,” Bucky says, setting his beer aside. “It’s almost nine. Come on, Steve, we’ve still got a drive ahead of us.” 

Rhodey snickers. Even before the wine, he'd had enough to drink that he's a little looser and less controlled than usual. "Priceless. Hey, if it’s too late for senior citizens, should we send the 'baby' to bed, too?" 

Clint smiles unpleasantly and says, “I’d love to see you try and enforce bedtime, Rhodes. You're going to need one hell of a lullaby." 

Dryly, Natasha observes, “I’m so looking forward to hearing these jokes until I’m eighteen again.” 

“Oh no,” Wanda counters cheerfully, clearly revelling in the schadenfreude. “Trust me, being eighteen will not help. Nor twenty, for that matter.” 

“Don’t worry, kid,” Steve teases. “You’ll grow out of it in a decade or so.” 

Natasha rolls her eyes and stands to give him a parting hug before he and Bucky take their leave. As she sits back down, she grabs another slice of pizza. It’s gone cold, but it’s still good and goes surprisingly well with the wine. The conversation drifts around her, the others resuming the discussion of the good old days. With Steve gone, they speculate a bit about his life in the past, which he apparently hasn’t shared with anyone. Well, maybe Bucky. This brings them to time travel and eventually, inevitably, they come to Natasha and to Vormir. Bruce is the one who asks about what happened to her _after_. 

_After_. They’re all watching her, and Clint is shifting forward in his seat, already poised to jump in and make them change the subject. 

She swallows a cold lump of pizza, washing it down with the last of the wine. “It was fast,” she says, putting down the rest of the slice and picking up a napkin to wipe her hands. “I was falling, and then I woke up in the garden. The other sacrifices were there, and they explained that we were inside the Soul Stone. As far as I know that’s true.” 

Sam interrupts to ask, “So it wasn’t heaven, like Steve thought? You were trapped inside the stone?” 

“The price was a soul, not a life,” Natasha says with a shrug. “Of course it kept us.” They look disquieted, heading toward horrified, and she hastens to add, “But it was nice. The garden was really… pleasant, I guess. Beautiful, peaceful, safe. It made-” No, she doesn’t want to tell them what it did to their minds. Not yet. She changes tack and says, “Baldur had a theory that the stone had some awareness, and it was trying to be kind.” 

Rhodey asks, “Baldur - the Asgardian kid, right?” 

“Yeah.” It stings a little, and it shouldn’t - he isn’t really being dismissive. They have no way of understanding Baldur’s importance when she hasn’t even tried to tell them. “He was in the garden longer than anyone else who could talk about it. I learned a lot from him, and he’s a good friend.” 

"I hadn’t realized,” Bruce says softly. "I guess from our point of view, you were gone a couple weeks, but for you it was almost four years.” 

For a moment, she thinks of leaving it there, but she just can’t. Janet said they would need to know. “It felt like more.” She glances at Clint and admits, “A lot more.” 

He narrows his eyes. “How long?” 

“It’s hard to explain,” Natasha hedges. “Time didn’t exist in the garden. The only way to judge how long we were in there was when someone visited the altar, and that had nothing to do with how long it _felt_. When Steve returned the stone, I thought I’d been there for a couple of years already.” 

With gentle concern, Bruce ventures, “Nat, Steve went over this with us last night. He returned the stone only a few hours after Clint took it. That would be… That would mean you were trapped for _millennia_.” 

She shakes her head. “No, you’re assuming that there was consistency, like real time. It was just… moments, all strung together. Sometimes we’d spar for what felt like days and run into the- into the same group of kids three or four times and they'd still be telling the same story. Everything just... flowed. If you asked, some of the others might have said that their whole time inside was like a long summer. For me, there were enough _moments_ for a few hundred years.” 

“Centuries,” Wanda says blankly. “What did you do?” 

“Explored, talked, sparred, played with the kids,” she says, shrugging. Mentioning the children makes her a little sad, but there’s no threat of tears. She’s glad for the time she had with them, now that they’ve moved on. With a pensive smile, she adds, “We had fun.” 

“‘Fun’,” Rhodey repeats disbelievingly. 

“That’s why your memory’s shot,” Sam realizes aloud. There’s a general shifting around as he vocalizes what they’ve clearly all started to suspect. “That’s why you can’t remember…” He runs a hand over the top of his head as he exhales and sits back in his chair. 

They’re all shocked and staring, and the ones who don’t look completely stunned are sad. On some level, Natasha knew that they wouldn’t react well right away, that it would be a lot to take. It’s uncomfortable - she didn’t tell them to upset them. Feeling small, she quietly says, “Sorry.” 

“It’s a clear night,” Clint announces abruptly, standing. “Nat. You want to go up on the roof?” 

*** 

“Stars,” Natasha breathes, walking out into the middle of the roof. “I forgot about stars.” The sky is black and void of clouds, and thousands of tiny, glittering pinpricks are scattered across the dark expanse. 

“It wasn’t the same, looking at them after…” Clint trails off. It’s hard to see him with the roof lights off, but the sliver of moon provides enough illumination to tell that he’s looking distant and sad again as he sits on the battered couch that’s been left out under the sky, surrounded by a mismatched bunch of old lawn chairs. Catching her gaze on him, he shrugs and wistfully says, “I’ll have to take you camping in Montana one of these days. It’ll blow your mind.” 

“I’d like that.” 

He looks at her, eyes growing intense, and she steadies herself. “Talk to me, Nat.” 

“It's strange,” she says. “The people who were blipped, they came back the same as when they disappeared, not even realizing that any time had passed. I spent such a long time in the garden. I met people, learned things, had a life. An afterlife, I guess. Everything is so unfamiliar." She shrugs and gives him a helpless look as she admits, "You’re the only one I’ve known without having to think about it. It took me a few seconds to recognize _Bruce_.” 

He tries to hide his worry, forcing certainty into his voice to tell her, "It’ll come back. You had some trouble at dinner, but you are recognizing people and remembering things with a little help, right?” 

“I guess.” She shakes off the melancholy and casts about for a different topic. “So, speaking of Bruce and remembering things, what’s up with him? That comment Sam made about him being my grandfather... It seemed like he was making a point. And the way Bruce looks at me...” 

He bristles slightly, shifting forward and beginning, “If Bruce is making you uncomfortable-” 

"No," she says quickly. "He hasn't been creepy. It's like he’s sad. Like he still misses me even though I'm back." 

“Ahhh.” Clint sits back, rubbing at the back of his head and wearing an odd expression. "Well you two did sort of have a thing," he says. "It was right before he disappeared during the disaster in Sokovia. From what I understand, it was brief but kind of intense." 

The thought of having an _intense_ ‘thing’ with Bruce is more than a little intimidating. Fiddling with the hem of her shirt, Natasha uncertainly asks, “How would that even work?” 

Clint stares at her for a long moment before barking out an incredulous laugh that trails off as he presses both hands to his face. “Oh god, I suddenly need that brain bleach Cooper’s always talking about,” he groans. Dropping his hands, he fights to keep a straight face as he explains, “Bruce was a hell of a lot smaller and pinker at the time. He didn’t go green 24/7 until years later, so it was kind of odd, but not _that_ odd. Also, I’m pretty sure that it was more what-could-have-been than actual relationship.” 

“Oh,” she says, relieved. 

He regards her with amusement and a bit of worry. “You don’t remember this at all?” 

“No,” she admits softly, shaking her head. “Do you think I really felt something for him?” 

He considers it. “I think you might have wanted to. The Hulk was an unstoppable force, but Bruce is basically a nerdy teddy bear. Maybe you thought he was safe. I’m honestly not sure; we didn't exactly talk about feelings.” He sighs and leans back, looking up at the stars. “Anyway, you guys were on good terms when we all got back together again, and he was pretty broken up when you- when we thought you weren't coming back." 

“I feel kind of bad for not remembering,” she muses thoughtfully. It must be awful to care about someone deeply and have them not really feel anything at all. _Poor Bruce_. She hopes that one day he’ll find someone to love him back. "Clint, you know I love you, right?" When he turns his head to stare at her in pure shock and something like horror, she narrows her eyes and clarifies, “Not like _that_ , Barton. Don't be weird.” 

“Jesus, Nat,” he breathes, appalled. “Are you seriously getting _mushy_ on me?” 

Natasha frowns at him. “You love me, too,” she points out. “The sacrifice wouldn’t have worked if you didn’t.” 

Clint goes very still. In a tightly controlled voice, he repeats, “Wouldn’t have worked...?” 

He didn’t have any way of knowing, she supposes. “The Keeper wasn’t lying when he said you had to give up ‘that which you love most’,” she explains. “You had to love me more than anything for the sacrifice to count. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have gotten the stone when I fell.” He stares at her, frozen, and she adds, “So… It’s a good thing it was us on Vormir. I don’t think I ever loved anyone nearly as much as you, and with Laura and the kids gone, I guess you-” 

He looks devastated, and makes an awful, broken noise. 

Startled, she starts to backpedal, "I'm sorry, I didn't-” 

“You used to say ‘love is for children’,” he interrupts hoarsely. “You never once in your entire life told anyone you loved them.” 

“I don’t remember believing that,” Natasha says. “It feels like I always loved you. Like you really are my brother.” Shrugging helplessly, she lamely jokes, “I guess it doesn’t matter anyway, since I’m a child now.” She can see the sheen of tears in his eyes in the moonlight, the tracks of moisture running down his craggy face. It’s hard to tell whether it’s sad-crying or happy-crying. As far as she can recall, she hasn’t had a lot of experience with Clint in tears. “I really didn’t mean to make you cry.” 

“Shut up and get over here,” he growls, his voice thick. When she obediently plops down beside him on the couch, he pulls her against his side and grumbles, “You’re such a brat.” 

She relaxes, her worry fading into amusement. They're going to be okay. “You like it,” she says smugly. 

“Hell no,” he scoffs, but he seems more settled as he exhales slowly and returns to watching the stars. Softly, he says, “I do love you, Nat.” 

Natasha leans into him, enjoying the warmth and the way his arm curls protectively around her shoulders. “I know.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: The return to Vormir.


	6. The Mission

Natasha oversleeps, waking up groggy and disoriented, her head heavy with confusing dreams that melt away as soon as she opens her eyes. The red numbers on the plastic clock taunt her; it's half an hour later than the time Clint mentioned. The sky out her window is already pale, but when she sits up she finds the sun not yet risen. Not too late then, but she should have set the alarm as her phone suggested. 

A shower helps to make her feel less foggy, and she gets a chance to put her new supplies to use and tame her curls. A combination of carefully reading the instructions and unexpected muscle memory gets her through, along with some helpful videos suggested by her phone. Before she's done more than tug on fresh clothes and pull her hair back into a ponytail, Clint brings breakfast to her room. Cherry Pop-Tarts, Natasha discovers, are both fascinating and disgusting in their overwhelming sweetness; she doesn't see how the sticky filling can possibly be derived from fruit. 

While she breaks the confections into bite-sized pieces and washes them down with orange juice, Clint sits beside her on the bed and says, "Everyone else is busy ferrying equipment around and getting prepped. Nothing we need to worry about." Waving his hand dismissively, he pulls out his phone. "Here, I wanted to show you…" 

Pictures. Static images of Laura and the kids. The oldest boy, _Cooper_ , dark-haired and never quite looking into the camera as he holds his brother upside down or lays on a couch with a book. The girl, _Lila_ , practicing archery, doing homework, laughing while she holds a chicken. _Nathaniel_ , all dark curls and funny faces, so much smaller than the other two but always chasing after them, copying whatever they do. And _Laura_ , happy and relieved in every picture, but also sad and tired. 

"So you can remember what you're coming back for," Clint tells her. 

Natasha goes back to the beginning and scrolls through the images again, studying the smiling faces. They seem tantalizingly familiar and she knows who they are - _Laura, Cooper, Lila, Nathaniel_ \- but there's no sudden spark of recognition, no immediate emotional response. They don’t seem real. 

Clint sees too much. "Nat, don't worry if you don't recognize them," he says gently. "The pictures are shitty. It'll be different in person." 

She hopes he's right. Maybe she'll get to find out soon, but it will have to wait until after the mission. Looking up to meet his eyes, she extends the phone to him and earnestly says, "Thank you. We should probably get going." 

*** 

By 8:30 AM, all of the participants have gathered at the site in the woods where the platform waits. They’re in what Sam calls 'hurry up and wait' mode, so Natasha gets a much better look at the place where she returned to Earth. It's incredibly close to the destroyed base, now little more than a massive, churned-up crater full of rubble. She's a little surprised to see that there already seems to be construction going on, but maybe it's just a salvage operation. 

The non-essential personnel - Doctors van Dyne and Pym - are monitoring the situation from the new base. Sam, Valkyrie, and Hope are in their full superhero kit in case anything goes wrong. Sam even has the red, white, and blue shield on his arm. Wanda is dressed casually, but has spent most of the morning talking quietly and tensely with Sam. They don't say so, but they're worried, hovering near Bruce and the control panel for the rig. 

All eyes are on the Asgardians in their sky blue robes as they move in and out of the large tent that’s been set up for them. They're clearly in the final stages of preparation. The oldest healer seems to be giving instructions to Rhodey, who’s already suited up in his white-clad War Machine armor. 

“You promise to be careful,” Clint says uneasily as they stand waiting under the trees, a dozen yards away from the innocuous-looking platform at the center of the action. Everyone is on edge, but he seems to be struggling the most. His continuing descent into full-on Dad mode is both sweet and a bit disconcerting. “-and if anything goes wrong,” he reiterates, “you’re going to hit the panic button and come right back, right?” 

“Yes, Clint,” Natasha agrees, as if they hadn’t already gone over it all before. 

He nods, still tense and still not looking at her. He barely has since they arrived, too busy compulsively scanning for threats. 

“Hey, relax,” she tells him, moving to stand in front of him, with her back to the others. “Look at me, Clint.” He does, eyes narrowed - he knows what she’s going to say, but she insists, “I'll be fine, really. There’s no life on Vormir except for the people we’re there to save. Even if there was, Rhodey isn’t going to let anything happen to me. I’ll be there for a few minutes, nowhere near any danger, and when we get back with my friends, we can all watch your _Star Wars_.” 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Rhodey says, walking up alongside them with a metal suitcase in hand. “You don’t remember _Star Wars_?” 

Clint deliberately relaxes his posture and forces a reasonably convincing smirk at the other man, but his coiled agitation doesn’t fade. “Nope. She’s a blank slate, Rhodes,” he intones gravely. “Pure as the driven snow. I’m trusting you to keep her untainted. No spoilers.” 

“Yeah, of course,” Rhodey agrees. He's smiling, but there's a vow in his steady gaze. “As long as you save me a seat on the couch at movie night.” 

“Deal.” 

Natasha rolls her eyes at the posturing, but lets them have their moment. Nodding toward the case dangling from Rhodey's gauntlet, she asks, "Are we ready to go?" 

"Yeah," he says, sobering. "Got the scanner and the gear for the survivors. Here's yours, Nat." Placing the GPS in her hand, he nods to her and Clint and turns to head away toward the platform. 

Natasha makes a half-turn so she can keep an eye on his progress, but keeps her attention focused mostly on the archer as she puts on the deceptively slim wristband. With the press of a button, the nanotech suit covers her street clothes with a layer of rubbery, white body armor and she immediately feels more mission ready. There’s just something about a uniform. Glancing up at Clint, she tries to think of what else she can say to reassure him. 

“I know you’ve got this,” he says grudgingly. “Just…” 

“I’ll be safe,” she promises. 

Clint smiles like it hurts and shoves his hands in his jacket pockets. Hoarsely, he says, “I’m counting on it, Nat.” 

Rhodey vanishes and the empty platform beckons. There’s no point in delaying. Natasha makes her way across the dry grass and climbs the steps. She turns to face the others, trying to look confident. No, she _is_ confident. This will work. Valkyrie is unreadable, Hope nervous, and Wanda has a hand on Sam's arm as if holding him back. His expression is familiar, though - mission mode, ready to do what's necessary to get the job done. 

Natasha nods to Sam and looks back at Clint. She keeps her eyes on him as Bruce calls out the countdown. The helmet closes over her head. 

Light, and she’s gone. 

*** 

It’s official: time travel makes Natasha queasy. At first, all she sees is shadow; the change in light level is enough that her eyes take a moment to adjust. When she gets a look at her surroundings, Natasha catches her breath, startled to find herself standing on the stone disk at the base of the altar. It’s exactly as it was the last time she was there - the water, the corpse, the strange shimmer where Jormi tore a hole in the air. On the bright side, that means they have the timing right, but it’s far from the intended destination. Her helmet retracts, the cold wind stinging her cheeks and tugging at her ponytail as she whirls around, looking for Rhodey. 

“Well, this is interesting,” he observes, looking around in calm but wary appraisal. “Very impressive ‘evil planet of darkness’ vibes. And _that_ is a nasty, giant bug. I hope that’s not a friend of yours.” 

“Not really,” Natasha says uneasily. “He was a jerk.” It doesn’t make sense that they would land in this place. If the power of the stone is gone, what would draw them to the altar? 

“What?” he asks as he notices her reaction. “What’s wrong?” 

“We shouldn’t be here,” she says. “Bruce said we’d appear where I left from. This isn’t right.” 

Apprehensively, he asks, “So where are we?” 

“The place where I died,” she admits, “and where I came back.” 

Rhodey stares at her for a moment and then looks up, only to breathe out an expletive when he sees the altar far above. Tearing his eyes away from the precipice, he regards her with concern. “Nat… You remember falling from up there?” 

She does, vividly, and suddenly the memory is visceral and present - the frigid air rushing past, the rapidly dwindling peak, Clint farther and farther away as she falls endlessly. Natasha swallows against the rising dread, her skin crawling, and deliberately focuses on the intricacies of Rhodey's armor and the unyielding stone beneath her feet - things that are real and present. It takes her a moment to meet his eyes. “Yeah,” she admits. 

He looks so sad, but there’s no pity in his expression. “I know a real good therapist if you need one,” Rhodey offers kindly. Taking another look around the platform, he changes the subject by asking, “What’s with the water? These puddles? I heard you nearly drowned. Did you drown _here_?” 

“I think the water came out of the stone with us,” Natasha replies with a tight shrug. The longer they stand there, the more she wants to get away. “We should get moving. I told Baldur that I'd only take a moment.” Orienting herself using the obvious landmark of the mountain, she sets off briskly in the direction of the cave. 

“You have got to stop telling people that you'll be back in a minute,” her companion sighs as he falls in beside her. “You’re jinxing yourself.” 

Frowning, she asks, “When-?” But the answer is obvious, even though she doesn't remember saying the words. She's quiet for a moment, trying to tease out the memory from what she recalls of the days before her death, but it's futile. “I do come back, though," she points out. "That's got to count for something.” 

He chuckles. “Yeah, you’re the original bad penny. You and Steve. Wish you'd taught that trick to Tony.” 

“He's been pretty good about coming back from the dead, too.” 

“Not this time.” 

There’s not much she can say to that. They walk in silence for a while, covering the distance a lot more quickly than the last time she followed this path. It helps to be able to breathe properly, and Rhodey doesn’t seem to mind her anxious speed. Finally, she spots the crevasse where the others should be waiting. “There,” she says, picking up her pace. “That’s the cave.” 

As they approach, Gamora darts out into the open and looks around frantically, stiffening when she sees Natasha and Rhodey. She strides toward them, giving the man a quick survey before focusing on her fellow sacrifice. “Natasha, you can’t wander off,” she says urgently as she closes the distance, “This place isn’t like the garden. You could have gotten lost or hurt.” She firmly catches Natasha’s wrist and draws her away from Rhodey, unsubtly positioning herself between the two humans and facing off against the stranger before demanding, “Who’s this?” 

Natasha knows that she was already young when she was resurrected, but the other woman’s behavior makes it obvious that Gamora has no idea that she was ever an adult. That narrows down the time of her de-aging, though not by much. Deciding that discretion is the better part of valor, she remains pliant in her erstwhile protector's grasp and contritely says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to take so long.” She earns an incredulous look from Rhodey, and she shrugs helplessly at him from behind Gamora. “My suit looked intact," she explains, "so I went back home to get help. Rhodey’s one of my friends, the ones who were collecting the stones - he came to help me bring you all to the future. Rhodey, this is Gamora.” 

"Nebula is gonna be thrilled to see you," Rhodey says warmly, reaching out and shaking a wary Gamora's hand. "Rocket and the others, too, of course." 

The warrior is very surprised and more than a little suspicious. "You know my sister?" 

“Not as well as Nat did, but we worked together once or twice in the last five years,” he replies. “That would be the _next_ five years from when we are now, I guess. Time travel, right?” 

Still a bit stiff, Gamora nods. “Well, if you’re here to help, then I’m grateful.” She lets Natasha go to usher her ahead as they enter the cave. 

Natasha scans the space quickly, relieved to see that everyone is right where they were when she left them minutes and days before. Ghezit glances up with a bored expression, but is clearly startled to see the heavily armored stranger enter. The dog looks up at Rhodey and makes a questioning noise, but stays when Baldur lays a hand on his back. Natasha goes to the boys immediately, letting the adults talk. Xinn seems no worse than when she left and Baldur is beaming with relief. 

“I was worried,” the Asgardian says quietly, reaching out to clasp her hand. “It's been a lot longer than a moment. Gamora was not best pleased that I let you go.” 

“We landed back at the altar,” she explains in a low voice, letting him see the disquiet in her eyes. She absently pats the dog’s massive head when he sniffs her knee with interest. “We weren't supposed to.” 

“Alright, listen up,” Rhodey says, raising his voice to be heard. “I’m going to take some scans of everyone for the medical team,” he explains as he suits actions to words, starting with Ghezit and working quickly around the room. “We've got Asgardian healers, so we should be able to sort out your individual needs. We’re all going to leave together, but the landing platform’s only made for one at a time. Nat and I will get there first to give the medical staff the data and there’ll be short intervals between arrivals to clear the platform. Does that make sense to everyone?” 

“We understand,” Gamora replies brusquely. “You have enough equipment for all of us?” 

“We pack efficiently where I come from,” Rhodey says, flashing a smile as he raises the case in front of him and pops the latches. Four time-space GPS bracelets and a long strap rest within, all in white. “These are pre-set and locked, so this is going to be real simple. Just put on the bracelet and push the button.” 

*** 

Natasha has her eyes closed to block out the morning sun when she returns from Vormir for the last time. She takes a deep breath as soon as the helmet retracts, and the crisp air tastes familiar - like home. When she opens her eyes, Clint is the first thing she sees, standing right where she left him. Though he still looks watchful and ready, his relief at her safe return is obvious. She shoots him a grin before she trots down off the pad to hand over her GPS. 

Sam steps forward to take the device, giving her a quick visual once-over to reassure himself that she's alright. Behind him, Wanda is doing much the same. "No problems?" he asks. "Everything go as planned?" 

"We landed a little farther away from the cave than expected," Natasha reports dutifully, "but we found the others and we're all set. Rhodey was going to make sure everyone else was on the way before he jumped." 

Sam nods, but he's still tense; he probably will be until Rhodey's back. "Alright. You're sticking around until everyone's accounted for?" 

"Of course." 

"Good. Just-" 

"Stay back and use Clint as a human shield if anything explodes," she interrupts, rolling her eyes. "I remember the plan, Sam." Natasha smiles to let him know she's mostly kidding even as she shoots a commiserating look at Wanda. 

Hope snickers and Wanda manages an answering smile, so mission accomplished. The Avengers used to joke over comms, teasing each other, especially on sit-and-wait missions. 

Sam purses his lips to hold back his amusement. "Kids these days," he says, aggrieved. "You know I'm the new Captain America, right? Respect the shield at least." 

Rhodey arrives before she can give a snappy reply. His calm and untroubled appearance as he nods to Sam and clomps down from the platform to give the medical data to the doctors does a lot to relax the others. Now comes the worst part: the wait while the Asgardians make their preparations for the incoming wounded. 

"It’s half an hour until the others start arriving?" Natasha asks, digging out her phone. Tony's AI really is brilliant - a thirty minute timer pops up on the display without further prompting. 

"Yeah," Sam confirms. "Go on and keep Hawkeye company. He's starting to look like he'll head over here, and I don't need him infecting anyone else with retirement." 

"I wouldn't worry," she counters as she starts to move toward Clint, “he's really bad at retiring.” The archer does look antsy in a motionless, snipery kind of way. He greets her with a nod as she comes to stand beside him and she bumps her shoulder against his arm companionably. 

The wait is interminable. The mission isn't over, but Natasha’s part is done. Clint doesn’t look like he’s feeling talkative, so she plays with her new phone to pass the time. The AI seems to have gone into a tutorial mode and is helpfully highlighting features and options. 

Xinn finally appears just as the timer reaches zero, popping into existence in a pathetic little heap on the platform. He’s quickly taken by the healers into their tent. Ghezit follows five minutes later, by the phone's clock, and is also bundled away as he looks around suspiciously. Gamora is next, right on schedule at 9:46 AM. She's waved on by Bruce, apparently in good enough shape to skip the healers, and chooses to make her way over to Natasha. 

"Welcome to Midgard," Natasha says, smiling. 

"Earth," Clint corrects casually. "We earthlings call it 'Earth'." 

"Welcome to Earth," she amends. "I'm still acclimating.” Indicating her companion, she says, “Gamora, this is Clint. Clint, Gamora.” 

Gamora gives him a searching, not very friendly scan that makes him raise a brow. “Hello,” she says grudgingly, in a clipped tone. 

“Hi,” Clint replies, unruffled. 

Puzzled by the woman's antagonism, Natasha points toward the medical tent and tells her, "Xinn and Ghezit are in there with the doctors. We're still waiting for the others." 

Gamora nods, her eyes softening as she turns back to Natasha. "I should check on them.” Stern but affectionate, she asks, “You'll wait here for Baldur and the animal?" 

"Yes," Natasha agrees. 

"Alright," Gamora says. "Come find me when they arrive." With one last glare at Clint, she stalks off to the tent. 

"Not the friendly sort," Clint observes. “Though you seem to have gotten past her defenses." 

"She's slow to warm up to new people,” Natasha demures. “We’ve known each other for years. Also, she thinks I'm actually a kid." 

"Yeah, I noticed that." 

There’s no censure in his voice, but the reminder of her lie of omission still troubles her. She’ll have to talk to Gamora about her age as soon as possible. She checks her phone. Three down, two to go, and two minutes left before the next arrival. 

"Patience, young grasshopper," Clint quips. 

"I told you no pet names," she grumbles. 

"Pop culture references are allowed!" 

"No." 

Just short of five minutes after Gamora, Rhodey calls, "Hey, we may want to back up. The next one is kind of-" 

The dog appears, the sudden bulk of him making Sam and the others jump back in surprise. He's almost too big for the platform, one massive paw nearly sliding off as he tries to get his bearings. He makes a startled, high-pitched sound and bares his fangs, his dark eyes narrowed against the light as his claws scrabble on the smooth surface. He’s blind for the moment, and everyone in lunging range takes the opportunity to get a few strides out of reach. Valkyrie has her sword drawn, and Wanda is glowing. 

"Hey," Natasha calls, tucking her phone away in her hoodie, "Come here, dog!" Beside her, Clint swears under his breath. 

The beast’s tufted ears perk in her direction and he trembles in place as his eyes finish adjusting. His long tail swings cautiously as he finds a person he recognizes beckoning him. In a sudden burst of motion, he bounds toward Natasha, covering half the distance in the first leap. As soon as he's close enough, he starts sniffing at her and pressing his heavy head affectionately into her ribcage. Natasha scratches through the dense, damp, dark fur over his thickly muscled neck and praises him with, "Good dog." 

"Okay, another thing you need to relearn is the word 'wolf'," Clint says, staring apprehensively at the large predator less than an arm's length away. "Or maybe 'bear'.” 

She rolls her eyes at his ridiculousness. "He's not a bear, he's a dog. Dog, this is Clint. He's a friend." 

The beast snuffles at Clint curiously and with no sign of aggression, but doesn’t seem terribly interested. Having found one of his people, he calms down enough to be curious about his surroundings and starts ranging around in a tight circle, sniffing the ground and nearby trees with fascination. He finds the places where Gamora walked and seems excited, but doesn’t move away to find her. Though he coughs once or twice, he’s perked up significantly from his uneasy state on Vormir. 

Clint appears to decide that his general fondness for Earth dogs will extend to this new creature. Reaching out as the animal passes close, he lets his fingers trail through the thick, gray fur and asks, “So what's his name?" 

Natasha shrugs and admits, "I don't think he has one." 

"You can't just not name him," he chides. "How about Mishka?" 

“Still not a bear,” she says dryly, turning back to watch the platform. Only one sacrifice left. 

“Boris?” 

“No.” 

“Bruiser?” 

“No.” 

“Fluffy?” 

“...hmmm.” 

The platform flashes and Baldur finally arrives. As the young Asgardian blinks in the sun, Natasha relaxes. The mission is a success and her friends are safe. 

“He sure looks familiar,” Clint observes dryly as the boy immediately heads in their direction. 

Natasha nods absently and moves to meet Baldur halfway. The dog beats her there, headbutting the final arrival happily and snuffling into his damp tunic as the boy stumbles a little at the force of the push. He still looks shaky, but he chuckles and pets the animal. “Good dog,” he says fondly. Looking up, he grins at Natasha as she draws close. 

The leader of the Asgardian contingent calls, “Prince Baldur!” 

The boy twists toward the voice, blue eyes wide. “Valkyrie Brunnhilde,” he says, clearly startled to recognize the woman striding toward him. “You look the same!” 

“A few millennia in a wormhole will do that,” she says wryly. She has a strange accent when using the Allspeak. “Most people just call me Val these days, your highness.” 

"Val, then," the boy agrees. He glances at Natasha with a strange trepidation, and when he speaks again, his accent has changed to match Valkyrie’s. Maybe it’s considered more formal? Politely, he says, "And you must call me Baldur. It's been a long time since I was a prince." 

Clint's brow furrows slightly, his eyes narrowing as he looks between Valkyrie and Baldur. Natasha possibly should have mentioned that the boy was a son of Odin, but it hadn’t seemed terribly relevant. Clint doesn’t seem angry, though, just puzzled and maybe a little irritated. 

“Come over to the tent,” Valkyrie enjoins. “A healer will need to see you.” 

Baldur looks uncharacteristically uneasy. He reaches out for Natasha almost reflexively, and she takes his hand. Valkyrie notices and raises a brow but says nothing, turning away to lead them to the healers. The dog and Clint trail along as well, and Natasha ignores the eyes of Sam and the others as their little procession heads out of the sunlight and into the dimmer confines of the lamplit tent. 

The room smells of some sort of spicy incense. There are three cots. Two are occupied by Xinn and Ghezit, both unconscious but thankfully breathing easier than before. They each have one of the younger healers attending them while the oldest of the three women oversees the proceedings. Gamora stands opposite the entrance by the canvas wall, watching over the others. She’s visibly relieved to see the remaining sacrifices enter together, and she nods approvingly at Natasha. 

Fortunately there’s enough room for everyone, though all of the extra people and the large animal make the quarters a little close. The dog heads over to sniff at Xinn and Ghezit while Baldur releases Natasha’s hand and allows himself to be coaxed to sit on the empty cot by the elderly lead healer. The old woman begins the examination with a casual gesture that seems to instantly dry Baldur’s hair and clothes, sending a cloud of steam swirling away from him. With that done, she conjures a ring of Seidr energy in front of the boy’s chest. The fingers of his casting hand flex while he avidly watches. 

“We have much to discuss, Baldur,” Valkyrie says gravely. “Considering where you turned out to be, I can now guess the means by which Odin defeated Hela all those years ago, and why she returned when she did.” Compassionately, but with an air of formality, she tells him, “My Prince, I’m sorry to inform you that your father and mother have both died, and your sister as well. You do have a surviving brother who is offworld now. In his absence, the throne has been left to me.” 

“My brother Thor is wise,” Baldur says, looking up to meet Val’s eyes intently. “I am gladdened that you lead our people in these difficult times, Lady Valkyrie.” 

She looks startled. “You know about Thor?” 

It’s odd - Clint clearly recognizes Thor’s name but otherwise doesn’t seem to be following the conversation. He can't understand, which goes against the whole point of the Allspeak as Natasha learned it. It only sounds a little different to her ears - slightly altered vowel sounds, an odd inflection here and there - but the dialect they're using apparently doesn't automatically translate to all listeners. Gamora is certainly listening with interest, so maybe it’s exclusive to those who actually know the language. 

“I have heard of his recent adventures from Natasha's stories of the Avengers,” Baldur explains. “I also know that Asgard has fallen and the survivors of our people now call Midgard their home. It will take time for me to learn about this world so that I may one day be of use to Asgard.” 

Val begins to protest, “The throne-” 

“Cannot be in the hands of an unschooled child,” Baldur says, nodding seriously. “I understand and agree, my Queen. Consider me your loyal subject, though I am only a boy and have little to offer.” 

“Our young prince is in good health, Majesty,” the venerable healer declares. “He merely needs healthful foods and rest to recover from his ordeal.” 

Val narrows her eyes at the boy and nods her thanks to the healer. “I’m happy to hear that, Healer Thiodvarta. I suppose that matters of state can wait until he's had time to recuperate.” 

Baldur grins. 

“Your Majesty,” Natasha says to Valkyrie, also in the Allspeak, “we'll be contacting the Guardians of the Galaxy to return to Midgard for Gamora." She indicates the green woman, who nods. "I’ve been told that Thor is with them." The flat look she gets from Clint means she got the dialect right, and he can't understand her. 

"Oh," Gamora interjects, her Allspeak intelligible to everyone, "Thor should be warned that he has another brother, shouldn't he?” 

Val raises an assessing eyebrow at them while the healer stares, to Baldur’s clear amusement. “Good idea,” she says dryly, switching to English. “Let's give them a call.” 

“Not in my ward,” Healer Thiodvarta states. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, I have patients abed.” 

Clint clears his throat and offers, “We could head back to base. Plenty of unused rooms for some privacy and probably some communications equipment. If we ask nicely, Sam will probably let us use the jet to get there faster.” 

*** 

"I was surprised that this has a holographic projector and can make calls to space," Natasha says as she sets her phone on the table in the rec room. The blackout curtains have been closed and the interior lights dimmed so that the images projected by the compact device will be as clear as possible. "But, well… Tony." She glances back over her shoulder to smile sadly at Clint. 

"Yeah," he agrees with a melancholy fondness. "Stark always had to go above and beyond." 

"Tony Stark, the Iron Man," Valkyrie clarifies quietly to Gamora and Baldur, "Quite brilliant, for a human. He wielded the Infinity Stones to erase Thanos and his army from existence, giving his life in the process. We honor his memory in New Asgard." 

Baldur nods solemnly. 

"Tony Stark," Gamora repeats. "The man who killed my father." Her eyes are damp with tears, but she exhales something like a laugh and smiles grimly as she vows, "I, too, will honor the memory of the Iron Man." 

The Starkphone’s AI does most of the work, providing a series of prompts for Natasha to tap through. In no time, she’s accessed a satellite capable of beaming a faster-than-light signal into interstellar space and broadcast a hail to the Guardians’ ship, the Benatar. According to the AI, it could take several minutes to receive a response. 

"Hey," Clint says, focusing on Baldur. "Why don't you and I take the dog back outside and let the ladies handle this? I doubt he's housebroken, and I don't like the way he's looking at the couch." 

All eyes move to the dog, who obliviously continues to inspect the end of the leather couch with suspicious enthusiasm. “Dog,” Baldur calls, and the beast’s great head turns to him. “Come, dog.” The animal obediently turns away from the couch and moves to join the boy, nuzzling against his side. Scratching behind the dog’s ear, Baldur glances at Natasha questioningly. 

She nods her approval. Baldur's first meeting with his brother shouldn't be on a holocall, and she knows that Clint will look out for him. The boy nods in return and is led out of the room, the dog following behind. 

Since they have a quiet moment, though not quite the privacy she would prefer, Natasha turns to Gamora and says, "So, it turns out that I am older than I look." 

The green-skinned woman raises a brow at her. 

"I used to be an adult, but sometime between dying and when you arrived in the stone, I got younger," she says, wishing she could give a better explanation. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to deceive you. I didn't know until Clint told me.” 

Bemused, Gamora stares for a moment before she slowly says, “You always seemed mature for an adolescent, but not so much that I doubted your age. How-” 

The communication channel activates suddenly with a chirp, the phone projecting an enraged raccoon made of flickering blue light into the air over the phone. "Who the _fuck_ is using this callsign?!" he snarls. His furious eyes go wide when he sees the girl who spins around to face him. His expression changes to shock and confusion, his ears whipping forward and twitching as he uncertainly asks, “Natasha?” 

“Hi Rocket,” she replies, smiling brightly at the furry curmudgeon. He, at least, is distinctive enough that she couldn’t forget him - though it helps that she remembers describing a raccoon to Baldur. “I got kicked out of the Soul Stone when Thanos destroyed it back in 2018. Just made it back home and brought some company.” She gestures and Gamora steps up. 

Rocket’s ears flick back and forth as he works through a series of reactions before he settles on looking choked up. “Doesn’t anyone stay dead anymore?” he asks thickly. “It’s good to see you guys.” 

“You too,” Gamora says earnestly. “Is- Are the others-” 

“Oh yeah,” Rocket says, shaking his head and turning to look over his shoulder. “Hey Nebula!” he yells. “Come here! It’s really her! And Gamora!” 

A hairless, blue-skinned woman with multiple visible cybernetics steps into frame in seconds, black eyes darting back and forth between Natasha and Gamora, her face blank. Like the raccoon, Nebula would be easily identifiable by being unique, even if Rocket hadn’t called her by name. 

Natasha waves. “Hi Nebula.” 

Gamora nearly sobs. “Sister,” she says. 

A human-looking guy with a desperate expression pops into view, bumping into Nebula’s shoulder and looming over Rocket as he demands, "Did you say Gamora? Where-?" He sees her and his eyes widen. 

"Peter," Gamora breathes with relief. 

Even through the holographic projection, the sheen of tears in his pale eyes is obvious. "It's you, it's really- How?!" 

"The Soul Stone let us go when it was destroyed," Gamora says. "I’m on Earth now - they have a time machine, and we were just rescued from the Vormir of the past." 

Peter looks gobsmacked, but he recovers quickly. Happy, but with a frantic energy, he says, “Okay, Earth, that’s- We can be there in- You know what, we’re gonna be right there! Don’t go anywhere, okay?” 

Gamora smiles a little tearily. “I won’t,” she promises. “I’ll be right here.” 

"Before you go," Val interrupts, stepping into the range of the camera, "I need to speak to Thor." 

Her part done and not really wanting to do another holo-reunion, Natasha taps Gamora and nods toward the door, then slips out into the hall. She can get her phone back later. 

*** 

With a little help from Dr. Pym, who’s grumpily sulking in the cafeteria while all of the other scientists are away at the platform site packing everything up, Natasha finds Baldur and Clint in the kitchen. The dog is there, too, wandering around the room and sniffing things. Baldur is methodically constructing peanut butter sandwiches at the table while Clint stands at the counter pouring milk into tall glasses. 

"Hi boys," she says, "Mind if I join you?" 

"Pull up a stool," Clint says amicably, reaching into the cabinet for another glass. 

As she takes a seat beside Baldur and shifts the depleted loaf of bread closer to the boy, she notices the large, empty mixing bowl on the floor. She hopes that whatever they fed the animal was okay for his stomach. “What’d you give the dog?” 

“Beef,” Clint replies with a shrug. “He seemed to like it okay.” 

“I’ve decided to call him ‘Hati’,” Baldur offers. “Clint pointed out that there are other dogs, and it would be confusing if he doesn’t have a name.” 

“I like it.” She nods her thanks at Clint as he sets full glasses in front of her and Baldur. It makes her strangely happy to see them together and apparently getting along. Clint comes back again with a plate for her and his own glass of milk, and they settle in to eat. Peanut butter isn't as good as pizza, but it's a taste she could get used to. The accompanying milk is a necessity, cutting through the stickiness of the sandwiches. Baldur voraciously digs in while Clint watches and efficiently works through his own lunch. Natasha eats more slowly, distracted by her thoughts. 

She lets the boy finish two sandwiches and half of his milk before venturing, “Baldur… I’m younger than when I died. You know that, right? You were there when I fought with Clint, you watched it.” 

Clint keeps eating, but she can almost feel his attention become laser-focused. 

Baldur puts down his third sandwich unbitten and regards her solemnly. "Yes," he admits. “It was one of the stone's 'kindnesses' to return its captives to a state of innocence, in body as well as mind. It affected almost everyone.” 

“Almost?” After a moment of thought, she guesses, “Ghezit, Breev, and the Lady…” 

“And Hati and I,” Baldur says. “For you, it occured before Steve came to return the stone.” He glances at Clint uncertainly, but continues, “You were fading quickly, but when he came, when you resolved to hold onto your memories and nearly fell to dreaming, the process stopped." 

A little hurt, Natasha asks, “Why didn't you tell me earlier? Before I lost more than half my life?” 

He shakes his head. “I had walked that path before,” Baldur says regretfully. "When I warned Xinn and Keretzenia, it did no good. They continued to lose years, and both told me later that they would have preferred ignorance. They were older than I when they arrived, but not grown. You saw how they ended - despite my efforts, they still became children. Worse, true happiness eluded them because they knew what they had lost.” Meeting her eyes with an earnest blue gaze, he tells her, “I couldn’t save you, Natasha, but I did try to help once you had saved yourself.” 

She considers this and nods hesitantly. She’ll ask Xinn to be sure, but if knowing wouldn’t have prevented it from happening, and if Baldur knew no way to stop it, then she can’t really blame him for keeping the secret. However, his words raise a different concern. Turning to Clint, Natasha asks, “Do I seem childlike?” 

Clint hesitates for a moment, studying her face, and smiles a little sadly as he replies, “Maybe a little. But you're still _you_ , Natasha. Just… happier. Less guarded.” 

“Happier?” It makes sense. There was a lot of darkness in her past, a lot of pain. Most of her life was spent trying to atone for her violent past. Even in the moment of her death, she was concerned with making up for what she’d done. It’s still important for her to be better than she once was, but in a way, that darkness doesn’t feel like hers anymore. It’s just a bunch of stories in her head. No, she can’t carry the burden of redemption anymore. She’s already given her soul; there’s no greater sacrifice she can make. If there's a ledger, it's as balanced as it will ever be. All she can do is try to live up to her own best self, to continue to be worthy of Clint and Steve and Baldur and all of her other friends and family. She eats her sandwich while she ponders her next move. “Clint,” she asks, “have you told Laura and the kids about me?” 

“Not yet,” he admits, wiping his hands with a paper towel. “Well, Laura guessed, but I wanted to be sure it was really you, and then there was your rescue mission…” 

That makes sense, and she nods in absent agreement. “What are you going to tell them?” she asks uncertainly. “I'm back, but I'm not the same. I'm not even sure…” ... _who I am_ , she thinks, but can’t say. “I don’t want to jerk the kids around while I’m trying to get my head straight.” 

He makes it sound so simple when he replies, “We tell them the truth: that you've been through a lot and your body has changed, but you're still Nat. You're still family.” 

_Family_. Suddenly there’s a lump in her throat and Natasha wants nothing more than to see Laura and the kids, alive and safe - to hold them and talk to them and relearn their faces, so they're more than just well-loved stories and pictures on Clint's phone. She wants them to be real again. 

Clint regards her with concern. “You are coming back home with me, right?” 

"Yeah," Natasha replies softly, and then adds more firmly, "Of course. Can we go as soon as things are wrapped up here?” 

He grins. “Whenever you’re ready, say the word.” 

She bites her lip, thinking. “We have to stay until the Guardians arrive. But after that...” _Home_. She glances at Baldur, who looks at her sadly but hopefully. “Clint? If it’s okay with Valkyrie and Thor, could Baldur and Hati come, too?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week: The final chapter! Star Wars, new arrivals, and an ending of sorts (not necessarily in that order)!


	7. The Girl

It seems absurd to Natasha that she was dead less than three days ago, trapped in an Infinity Stone and waiting for its destruction. She could never have imagined that she would find herself free and impossibly alive, lying on the floor in front of a television in a former orphanage - former because she helped to _un-orphan_ the residents - about to watch a movie with friends. Ridiculous. 

Yet here she is, shoulder-to-shoulder with Baldur as they lay back against Hati’s side while the dog snores lightly. Clint, who she never thought she'd see again, is sprawled in an overstuffed easy chair watching over her. Gamora is behind her at one end of the long, black couch and Valkyrie, coincidentally the one person who knew Baldur before his death, has taken up position at the other end, still in full regalia. Rhodey sits between them, using a remote to click through options on the screen and cue up the movie. Words appear, blue against black - _A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...._ The music swells, the title appearing against a black field spotted with stars and drifting away into the distance. And then- 

“I don’t understand,” Valkyrie says. “You said this was the first movie.” 

“It is,” Rhodey insists. 

“I know this numbering system,” the Asgardian warrior points out. “It says Episode Four.” 

“Are we not watching the first three movies?” Baldur asks, tipping his head back to see the others. 

“No,” Rhodey says firmly. “This is the first movie.” 

Gamora suspiciously begins, “But-” 

“It’s the first movie _and_ fourth episode,” Clint interjects, clarifying nothing, then blatantly dodges the entire issue with, “It’s an Earth thing.” 

Baldur gives Natasha a skeptical look and she can only shrug, equally baffled. 

“You know what, this isn’t important, we’re missing the-” Rhodey huffs, frustrated, as he notices that the scrolling words are almost gone. “You know what, all you need to know is Empire bad, Rebels good, Princess Leia in trouble, okay? Just watch.” 

Somewhat suspiciously, they do as they’re told and are quickly drawn into the story. The rhythm of Hati's breathing and the warmth of his fur are lulling, but the movie is entertaining enough to keep Natasha awake and curious about what will happen next. Rhodey answers Gamora's occasional questions quickly and quietly. Clint and Valkyrie are mostly silent, and Natasha feels their eyes on her and on Baldur so often that she doubts they see much of the film. 

Sam sneaks in and finds a chair while the desert hermit is telling Luke Skywalker about his father’s war record. He was going to stay in the field until the healers were ready to make their way to the compound, and Natasha can't quite shake the awareness that elsewhere in the building, the Asgardian healers are settling Xinn and Ghezit into the nurse’s office. Wanda, the van Dynes, and Bruce will be packing up the quantum platform now that it’s no longer necessary, so that Pym can keep the means for time travel safely locked away. It doesn’t escape her notice that this diversion neatly keeps her and the other sacrifices away from all of that. 

The movie continues, and Baldur is enthralled. The heroes make their daring raid to rescue the captured princess and his shoulder nudges against Natasha’s as he reacts to laser battles and the lightsaber duel. Hope joins them as Obi-wan dies at Vader’s hand, distracting Natasha just long enough to miss the strike that kills the old man. The junior van Dyne’s arrival means that the team working on the platform has returned. Hope nods at Sam as she drops onto the couch between Rhodey and Val, and his reaction confirms Natasha’s suspicions. Well, it doesn’t matter, really - her goals have all been accomplished, and Sam did explicitly tell her that they would be treating her with caution. There are no more interruptions during the movie, which has only a few quiet moments between heroics and explosions and ends in victory for the heroes and a medal ceremony. 

“That was quite good,” Baldur says cheerfully, sitting up and turning to look at the adults when the credits begin to roll. “An excellent tale, and very exciting!” 

“Glad you liked it,” Sam says with a grin. Looking to Natasha, he asks, “How about you? Ring any bells?” 

Natasha shakes her head. “No, but I enjoyed it.” 

Clint scoffs and wryly comments, "Guess that's better than what you said the last time." 

"Oh, this I have to hear," Sam says. 

“Okay, some backstory,” Clint says, making a loose framing gesture with his hands without shifting from his comfortable sprawl. "I’m being nice and trying to socialize the Russian spy and help her fit in. She already knew about Star Wars - twist and all - but she’s never seen it. Nat watches the whole thing and tells me it was 'very American' and she sees why I like it. Not in a nice way." 

"I'm not sure whether to take offense to that," Rhodey laughs. 

Nat smiles and laughs along even though the story evokes nothing but a vague recollection of spending time with Clint in the early days after her defection to SHIELD. She’s not sure if Clint notices, but Baldur leans against her subtly in silent support. He would realize, of course, that if she never shared the anecdote with him, then it’s very likely something she lost long ago. 

They break briefly for trips to the bathroom. The rec room's table has already been set up with an assortment of snacks and drinks, so there’s no reason to delay settling in for the next movie in the series. _The Empire Strikes Back_ is easier to get lost in, since there are no interruptions from new viewers coming in. Near the end, when things aren’t going well for the heroes, Natasha finally finds out why Clint laughed when she replied, “I know,” after he said he loved her. Han responds to Leia’s declaration of love the same way, even though he’s only moments from possible death. It’s a dramatic moment, and a little surprising that Clint would find it funny rather than sad, but Han’s survival in the carbonite means that he’ll likely be rescued at some point. There is one more movie, after all. 

Not long after that, the fighting starts. Luke faces Vader. Leia and Chewie try to save Han and escape the floating city with the help of Lando while the battle rages on in the bowels of the city. Luke narrowly manages to escape carbonite freezing and chases Vader deeper. The villain begins to use his powers to hurl things through the air, and a huge, round window is broken. The suction begins to pull at Luke- 

Without warning, the action on screen freezes and the sounds of battle stop. Natasha and Baldur twist around to see that Rhodey is holding out the remote, looking upset. Clint is pale, his hands white-knuckled on the arms of his chair. The other adults seem confused. 

“Okay,” Rhodey says carefully, “So, some of the things that happen next might be hard to watch.” 

“Oh,” Hope says, startled but understanding. 

Sam looks confused, then realization dawns and he mutters, "Damn, I'm sorry, I should have-" 

"Sam, if anyone was going to remember, it should have been me," Rhodey says, patting his own leg lightly with the hand not holding the remote. Focusing on Baldur and Natasha, he gently says, "Listen, we don't have to watch any more of this. The rest is great but…" 

A bit stiffly, Gamora asks, “What is it that you don’t want us to see?” 

“There’s a character who falls a long way,” Hope explains. 

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "And in the next movie, there's some more stuff like that, with… falling. We can watch something else. Disney. Maybe Li-" He pauses mid-word and corrects himself, "Not Lion King." 

"Thank you for your concern," Baldur says respectfully, "but if Natasha and Gamora do not mind, I would like to see the end of the story." 

"Yes," Gamora agrees, determined. "Play the recording." 

Natasha glances at Clint, concerned by his silence and guarded expression. Though still tense, he tips his head to indicate that it’s her call. If he’s willing and her friends want to continue, then she has no objections. She nods her assent to Rhodey. 

The movie continues. Luke is sucked out the window and Vader steps forward to see him dangling above a vast empty space ringed in lights. The young Jedi quickly pulls himself to safety, but now Natasha is waiting for the inevitable descent. The Falcon escapes, and the fight between Force-users continues on a narrow walkway. Luke refuses to give in, but his defiance results in the loss of his hand and the weapon in it. He clings to a pipe, wounded and precariously balanced over the fall, and she braces herself. 

Then Darth Vader says, “No. _I_ am your father.” 

Natasha’s hand finds Baldur’s without thought and his grip is tight, his eyes wide in her peripheral vision. She can’t look away from the screen as Luke protests and realizes and screams his denial. Vader keeps talking about power and destiny, and the bones in her hand creak. Luke calms and looks down, and even though she’s prepared for it, seeing the bottomless shaft below him makes her stomach lurch. Baldur is barely breathing and Gamora’s shuddering, indrawn gasp is loud. 

Clint snaps, “Turn it off!” Somewhere in the background, there is a whir and a curse, the sound of the couch creaking - Rhodey scrambling for the remote. The dog’s head comes up, a low, wary growl sounding. 

“No,” Baldur breathes, and his grasp gentles - clinging instead of crushing. She doesn’t think they’ll hear, but the movie doesn’t stop again. 

Hati has craned his head to study her and Baldur, looking perplexed, but Natasha can’t tear her eyes away as Vader tells Luke, “Come with me. It is the only way.” Awkwardly, she pats the dog's leg to soothe him, and he lays back down with a huff. 

Luke looks almost peaceful when he chooses to fall. 

The rest goes by in a blur. Natasha catalogs what happens numbly, though she shivers a bit when Luke hangs helpless and alone against the twilight sky, calling the names of his friends. It’s not that she’s scared or traumatized, just unsettled, a bit like how she felt on Vormir at the altar. By the time the credits roll, she’s fine, even a little confused by how strongly she felt while watching. It’s not as if Luke even died. 

Baldur sits up and Natasha follows suit, glancing back to check on the others. Gamora is composed and blank, left hand holding the other by the wrist as she sits on the edge of the couch with her elbows braced on her knees, still staring at the screen. Clint is clearly shaken and looks like he could use a hug, but his body language screams that he doesn’t want comforting. Sam, Rhodey, and Hope seem concerned, while Valkyrie merely watches her prince neutrally. 

“Baldur,” Natasha says softly, squeezing his hand. “Are you okay?” 

In the private version of the Allspeak, he tells her, "I'm well.” He sounds like she feels - puzzled and a bit uneasy. “It reminded me of… I don't know why I reacted so strongly to a memory from so long ago." 

"It felt fresh again for a moment," she observes, responding in kind. Just like when she was back under the altar... "It didn't when we were in the garden, or now." 

He nods, frowning. 

"It's the language of Asgard," Valkyrie says coolly. "And none of your business." 

Natasha looks back to see the older humans looking tense. “Sorry,” she says, switching to English. “We’re okay.” 

“Can we watch the last one?” Baldur asks. “They save Han, don’t they?” 

"Okay," Sam says after a pause. He glances at Clint and nods, saying, "Yeah, we can watch the next one, but let's take a quick break and we'll come back to it. Maybe walk the dog and think about having dinner first." 

“Yes,” Gamora agrees, standing. “I could use some air.” 

*** 

The sun is getting lower but it’s still bright, making the already pale grass look washed out. The fresh, chilly air and blue sky are grounding. Hati races around exploring randomly, nose in the lawn, while Natasha and Baldur trail behind. He keeps circling back to check on them, and they pat him in the instants before he charges off again. 

Natasha glances back at the others who came outside with them. Clint is still focused inward, but Sam and Rhodey have pulled him aside and are leaning close to speak quickly and quietly to him. While he’s nodding, he says nothing in return. Val and Gamora each stand alone, close to the others but not engaging. Gamora seems lost in thought, while Val watches the dog run around idly. 

“It’s been a long day,” Baldur observes softly as they continue to amble slowly away from the building. “A few hours ago, we were dead.” 

Natasha nods and returns to watching Hati run increasingly wide arcs. “A couple of days, actually - I arrived the day before yesterday. I was unconscious for some of that, but...” 

“You’re alright, aren’t you?” he asks with concern. “You’ve been breathing well since you came to retrieve us, and I’d forgotten to ask.” 

“I’m fine,” she assures him with a smile. “Bruce knows a wizard.” 

His eyes spark with interest. “Does he? I-” The boy stops abruptly, looking behind them at the approaching sound of crunching grass. 

Natasha turns to find Sam coming up on them. With an apologetic look, Sam asks, “Sorry - Nat, can we talk?” 

She exchanges a glance with Baldur, who shrugs amicably and changes directions, heading back toward Gamora and Val. “Sure,” Natasha agrees. 

He hesitates, leading her a little further from the others with a light touch on her arm. "I really am sorry about the movie," he says in a low voice. "It's the x-wing scenes and the Hoth stuff that I usually think about as problematic for PTSD, but…" 

"It's okay," she assures him. "I didn’t think watching someone fall in a movie would be a problem. I wish you’d said that it was his father who caused it..." She glances toward Gamora and Baldur, but she doesn't think they're close enough to have heard. “...but I understand why you didn’t.” 

He follows her gaze and his expression turns sad and angry. "Damn." He's still tense, and he rubs his hands together - a nervous gesture, not a guilty one. 

Natasha takes note of his agitation and asks, "There's something else, isn't there?" 

"Yeah," he admits. “We’ve been talking - everyone who’s been an Avenger that’s still in the game. There’s not many of us left. Right now, we’re not bringing the team back together, just staying in touch in case something big comes up.” 

“Hopefully not anytime soon,” she says lightly. Tapping the corner of her phone that pokes out of the pocket of her hoodie, she tells him, “My number hasn’t changed.” 

“Thank you,” Sam says earnestly, dark gaze locked on hers. “I mean it, Nat. But that’s what I need to talk to you about.” He looks down briefly before meeting her eyes again with determination. “I want you to know that you’ve got a home with us whether or not you _ever_ suit up again. That room in there is yours as long as you want it. It’s just that-" Another quick glance away, and he looks pained as he apologetically tells her, "-we won’t be able to have you in the field anytime soon. Not until you’re old enough that no one accuses us of using child soldiers. You know there’s no one I’d rather have out there with me, but the Avengers need to build up a public image again, now that we’ve lost Stark and Cap.” 

He looks so anxious about her reaction, but all she feels is a little bemused. “Sam,” she says, laying a hand on his arm. “I get it. I hadn’t really thought about it, but it makes sense.” 

“I’m not gonna bench you completely, Nat,” he insists. “You’re better with computers than anyone else we’ve got and I hear you’ve done great work in the last five years with coordinating forces. It would really help us out to have you here doing overwatch and training.” 

“I appreciate it,” Natasha says honestly, “but I think I’m going to take a break. I’m going home with Clint for now and then… I don’t know. I’ve never been normal before, but I'm sure I can find something to keep me busy until I’m eighteen.” 

Sam blinks, so surprised that he actually huffs out a short laugh. Nonplussed but relieved, he ruefully says, “You and Steve - the last people I ever expected to hang up the suit.” He nods and steps back, reaching out to gently tug one of the loose curls that’s fallen out of her ponytail to frame her face. His smile is fond and a little sad. “Just remember, anytime you want to come back, there’ll be a place for you with the Avengers.” 

“I’m going to remind you of that in a few years,” she warns him teasingly. 

Grinning, he replies, “I’m looking forwa-” 

With an audible impact and a blast of displaced air, a thick, red beam of energy slams into the ground a hundred yards away and writhes in place, an incandescent, throbbing cord connecting the earth and the sky. The sound of it is deafening. Natasha shields her eyes with both arms, frantically cataloguing the positions of her friends in her mind. A hand grabs her and she’s yanked backwards and turned, a solid body suddenly braced between her and the blazing brightness. Strong arms hold her in place against a jacket-clad chest, the cold zipper pressing into her cheek - _Sam_. She cracks her eyes open and gets a glimpse of rainbows streaming past her human shield before the sound and light abruptly end. 

“Shit,” Sam says frantically above her. “Nat, can you see?” 

Wordlessly, she leans to the side to look past him. The new arrivals are unmistakable. “It’s Thor,” she says, relieved. “He’s got Nebula and Peter with him.” The seared circle of grass around their feet is steaming, wreathing their legs in dramatic mist as they step forward. 

Sam’s growled response is both explicit and obscene, but he releases his grip on her. “Sorry,” he says, streaming eyes still squeezed shut. “Didn’t mean to-” 

“It’s fine,” she says, keeping one hand on his side so he can track her location more easily. "I don't mind." A quick glance shows that Baldur got the same protective treatment from both Valkyrie and Gamora, and Rhodey is fully armored up. Clint is crouched by Baldur with both hands over his eyes, and Hati is stiff and ready for a fight even as everyone else relaxes. Baldur calls the dog to his side, digging his fingers into the thick ruff. 

Gamora breaks ranks with the others and jogs toward the newcomers. 

Grabbing Sam by the hand, Natasha leads him over to the humans. She says Rhodey’s name to get his attention and nudges Sam toward him, then crouches to check on Clint. “Hey, it’s me,” she says, touching his wrist. “Are your eyes okay?” 

“Peachy,” he says tightly, not moving his hands. She relaxes - if he’s being sarcastic, he’s going to be fine. 

“Thor,” Baldur breathes, seeming dazed. “That’s Thor.” 

“Yeah,” she confirms, standing. Thor is taking his time crossing the lawn, staring unabashedly at his long-lost sibling. Apparently neither brother is quite ready for their introduction. As the God of Thunder navigates around Gamora and Quill, who are passionately reaffirming their relationship, Natasha brushes her hand against Baldur’s, offering support. “Are you ready for this?” 

The boy swallows and nods sharply. His fingers curl around hers, squeezing gently for a moment before he lets go. “I do not fear the son of Odin.” 

“You shouldn’t,” Valkyrie says wryly, reminding them of her presence as she steps up on Baldur’s other side. “He’s a soft touch for family.” 

Across the field, Gamora’s embrace with Quill ends before either of them can suffocate. As soon as her lover reluctantly releases her, Gamora steps to Nebula and the women speak. Then, slowly and awkwardly, Nebula steps forward to hug her sister. 

Thor has finally come close enough for conversation that doesn’t involve shouting. Something flickers in his mismatched eyes and his armor disappears with a crackle of lightning, leaving him in a long-sleeve knit shirt and brown pants. He looks much less imposing, and much less - Natasha guesses - like his father. Baldur’s stiff body eases fractionally. 

“Hey, Thor. Could have given us some warning that you were beaming down,” Rhodey says. 

“My apologies,” Thor replies, distracted. “The situation seemed to warrant haste.” As he regards the boy who looks so much like him, he’s clearly overwhelmed. There are tears in his eyes as he shakily says, “Hello brother.” 

“Hello brother,” Baldur echoes. He’s straight-backed and outwardly poised, but the faint quaver in his voice belies his calm. 

Thor grins, joyous and open, and a few tears manage to run into his wild beard as he lets a brief, elated laugh slip. He shakes his head, shifting his attention while he gathers himself. “Natasha,” he says, as if noticing her for the first time. “I knew in my heart that we would meet again.” She’s gotten to enjoy a lot of hugs in the last few days, but Thor’s may be the best. He’s as solid as a stone wall, so carefully gentle, and almost as warm as Steve. Electricity hums under his skin. “Thank you for saving my brother,” he rumbles. 

Natasha draws back, smiling up at the god, and honestly replies, “We saved each other.” 

“I am glad,” he says earnestly. “So glad.” Turning back to Baldur, he says, “Brother, I would speak with you awhile.” 

Baldur nods and steps forward, and the brothers walk away with Hati pacing beside them. Val follows at sufficient distance to let them have a private conversation. 

“I need to figure out how to feed all these people,” Sam mutters, apparently recovered from his temporary blinding. He shakes his head and starts back toward the building, pulling his cell phone out of the pocket of his jacket. 

Clint stands up, blinking and making faces but able to focus on his surroundings. 

“You okay, Hawkeye?” Natasha asks. 

“I’m good,” he says. He glances after the Asgardians, then gives Natasha a meaningful look. “I guess I should call Laura?” 

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Tell her I’ll see her soon?” 

He hesitates. “Do you want to talk to her?” 

She shakes her head. It will be better for him to be able to speak freely about the situation and not worry about her feelings. “I was thinking about heading to the infirmary.” 

“Alright," he says obligingly. "You go ahead and I’ll track you down in a bit.” 

*** 

The office area of the nurse’s office is unoccupied. Two of the healers are in Ghezit’s room - she can hear them talking over him as he complains - and the third is browsing through the storage room with the door open. Choosing not to draw their attention, Natasha slips quietly through the other closed door into Xinn’s room. He’s lying back on the bed, his muted green and gold tiger-stripes standing out against the pale blue gown and white sheets. She hesitates just inside the door, not wanting to wake him, but his large eyes blink open and focus on her before she can back out. He looks relieved. “Natasha.” 

“Hello Xinn,” she says, soundlessly closing the door behind her and approaching the bed. They’ve never talked much beyond greetings in passing, but at least she’s a familiar face. “How are you feeling?” 

“Good.” Nervously, he asks, “Are you okay? Did anyone else come back?” 

“I’m fine,” she assures him as she pulls the lone chair closer to the bed and sits. “Gamora, Ghezit, Baldur, and the dog are here. Jormi lived too, but he was able to return to where he came from.” 

His face crumples. "None of the others? Shalla or 'Tzenia? Or Jai?" 

She shakes her head. 

He looks down at his strong, long-fingered hands and picks at the sheets with his sharp claws. “The healers told me that we’re on Midgard.” Glancing up at her curiously, he asks, “That’s your homeworld, isn’t it?” 

“Yes. This place belongs to some of my friends. You’re safe here.” 

In a formal, rote way, the boy recites, “Your hospitality is my bond.” 

Apologetically, Natasha admits, “I feel like there’s a right answer to that, and I don’t know it.” 

Xinn frowns pensively. “It’s alright. I… I’m not sure I know either.” 

The obvious memory lapse reminds her of the earlier conversation with Baldur. She hesitates, but can’t resist asking, "Xinn, do you remember being older when you died?" 

He blinks, surprised, as if just remembering. "Oh. Yes.” When he looks up at her, his orange eyes are brighter and more focused, as if a thin, dark film had been peeled away. With a touch of uncertainty, he asks, “You just found out? I wasn’t sure if Baldur told you. It might be my fault if he didn’t. The last time I talked to him, I told him I’d rather not have known." 

"He mentioned that," Natasha says cautiously. 

"Funny, isn't it? How you don't notice until you're told," Xinn muses, "or reminded. Keretzenia didn't realize on her own, either." 

“Are you still angry at Baldur?” 

The boy shakes his head quickly and objects, “I was never angry at Baldur!" Then he amends, "Well, maybe a little, but it wasn't his fault. He was a good friend when I was the elder and when we were the same age, but it got harder when he was older because it reminded me. I didn’t think about how he'd feel when we stopped talking. I just wanted some time alone and got used to it.” Curiously, he asks, "Are you upset about being younger? I can never tell with you." 

"Not really," she says. "I'm getting used to the idea. It doesn’t bother you at all?" 

He shakes his head. "I was older when my uncle sacrificed me - more grown than you are now - but I don’t really remember much from before I died. And it's been _ages_ since Baldur got taller than me." He shrugs philosophically, and she thinks she can see an echo of the young adult he used to be in the fluid movement. "This is the me I know.” 

_The me I know_ … The idea resonates surprisingly strongly with her, and Natasha nods slowly. “That’s... a really good way of looking at it,” she tells him. They sit in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts, until one of the remaining unanswered questions comes to mind and she asks, “Why do you think it happened to us and not Baldur?” 

Startled, Xinn asks, “What? Getting younger?” 

“Yes.” 

He studies her with an unchildlike intensity, but his large eyes are guileless as he shrugs against the pillow. “Not for certain... I used to think it was the fruit - my people had a story about not eating in the world below, you see - but then I thought… Baldur was always so mad about dying. Breev and Ghezit were, too. I didn't want to die, but the garden was better than where I'd been before, I think. So maybe-" 

The sound of the door opening cuts him off, and both of them watch as Gamora comes in, followed by Quill and Nebula. The green-skinned woman smiles when she sees them. “Xinn, I’m glad you’re awake. Natasha, the healers didn’t mention that you’d come in.” 

“I guess they missed me,” Natasha says innocently. Based on their looks, neither of the women are buying it, but Peter seems to accept her words at face value. He and Nebula wait by the open door while Gamora approaches the bed. 

“These are my friends,” she explains to Xinn. “Peter Quill and my sister, Nebula. We have a ship coming, and we’re going to take you and Ghezit back to your people as soon as you’re feeling better.” 

Looking down at his hands nervously, the boy softly says, “I… I don’t remember my homeworld.” 

“It’s a very nice world,” Gamora assures him. “They have a large spaceport with a famous marketplace, and beautiful forests. We’ll make sure that you’re with a good family.” 

He traces the golden stripe on the back of one wrist as he nods slowly. “Thank you.” 

"It will be a day or two before our friends arrive with the ship, and the healers would like for you to rest here until tomorrow. Is there anything you would like?" 

"No, I'm tired," Xinn says, shaking his head. "I think I'll sleep more." 

"Alright. We'll let you get your rest. Come on, Natasha." 

*** 

As she walks down the hall toward the lobby with Gamora, Quill, and Nebula, Natasha ventures, “I understand why you’d want to take him back, but I don’t think there’s much left of who Xinn was before he died. Is his homeworld really the best place for him?” 

Gamora looks pensive, but nods. “Xinn’s people suffered a terrible plague several centuries ago,” she explains. “They survived, but their population has never really recovered. Theirs was one of the only worlds Thanos ever passed by, because they had an abundance of resources and so few people.” 

“He called it ‘a world blessed by balance’,” Nebula quotes bitterly. 

“Yes,” Gamora agrees. “There will be many families happy to take on a healthy, young child. It will be a better life, and less dangerous, than what he would have if he stayed with us. Ghezit should be fine as well. We won’t even have to go too far out of our way to give him a ride home.” 

"Unfortunately,” Quill says with real regret, “We can’t figure out where your pet came from. Even the Asgardians were clueless.” 

"They say they have no record of such a beast," Gamora clarifies. "We know he was in the stone for millennia, so he may be the last of his kind. If so, we’ll have to keep him." 

Quill makes a face. "That's going to take up some room," he says. "Three kids, a dog-monster, and an asshole - pretty tight quarters." 

"Oh," Natasha corrects him, "I'm not going anywhere. I'm an Earthling.” 

"You're Terran?" He blinks and skeptically asks, "Hold on, how did a human kid end up in the Soul Stone?" 

Before she can say anything, Nebula hisses, "Natasha sacrificed herself to get the stone so we could bring you back from dust. Show a little respect." 

Quill looks surprised, but he seems sincere when he turns to Natasha and says, "In that case, thank you." 

It feels incredibly awkward to be thanked for dying. Uncertainly, she ventures, "You're welcome?" 

When they reach the lobby, they find Sam, Bucky, and Clint carrying brown cardboard boxes in from outside. 

“There you are,” Clint says, pausing. “Your friends okay?” 

“They’re going to be fine,” Natasha assures him. “What’s going on?” 

“I called Bucky and had him get the fixings for burgers and hot dogs while he was on his way over with Steve,” Sam explains, gesturing with the box he’s holding. “We’ve got a lot of people in residence and a huge grill in the kitchen. Might actually have to use the cafeteria this time.” 

Bucky adds, “Got ice cream, too. Steve insisted.” 

“We’ll watch the third movie after dinner,” Clint says. “Thor and the kid should be done with their chat by the time we eat.” 

"Which movie?" Quill asks, interest piqued. 

"Star Wars," Gamora replies. 

"Aw, you watched the first two without me?" His sadness lasts only a moment before he perks up and says, "Well, it's fine. The third one is the best anyway. It’s got Ewoks!" 

Clint stares thoughtfully at Quill for a moment, then suggests, "You know, they made more Star Wars movies. You should watch the prequels. I think you'd like them." Sam gives him a look that Natasha can't quite interpret. 

"My friends!" Thor booms as he comes in through the main entrance behind Valkyrie and Baldur, an arm extended to hold open the door for Hati, who walks straight to the nearest open patch of floor and flops down for a nap. “We saw the car arriving and thought to join you. It’s good to see you again in more joyous circumstances." 

“Yeah, it’s great to see you too, buddy,” Clint says, completely deadpan. “Grats on the brother.” 

“Thank you!” 

Natasha catches Baldur's eye. He seems at ease, even happy, and offers a small smile. 

"You know," Bucky says, eyeing Hati warily, "I thought we bought enough meat, but Sam wasn’t kidding about that dog." Behind him, Sam scoffs as he turns and heads out of the lobby toward the cafeteria. 

"He is certainly a mighty beast," Thor agrees cheerfully. "Barton, might I have a word?" 

Clint shifts the box he's holding a bit pointedly, but says, "Sure, what's up?" Bucky shakes his head as he turns and follows Sam out of the room. 

"My brother has asked to stay on Earth and learn to blend in," Thor says, grasping the boy's shoulder affectionately. "As he and Natasha have become friends, would you be willing to host Baldur at your home for a time? At least until more permanent arrangements are made for his keeping." 

"Yeah, of course," Clint agrees. "I’ll keep an eye on him. And his little dog, too." 

“That’s great!” Quill bursts out happily, no doubt because of the reduced number of passengers for his ship. When everyone stares at him, he coughs and more calmly repeats, “I mean, really, it’s great that you’re… such a nice guy.” 

Clint raises a skeptical brow. 

Gamora gives her boyfriend an amused look, but agrees, “It is.” Smiling at both teenagers, she observes, “I’m glad that you’ll have each other. It’s hard to imagine you two apart.” 

“Well, that’s settled,” Valkyrie says briskly. “We can straighten out the details after dinner.” 

“After the movie,” Baldur corrects quickly. 

“Right, after the movie,” Clint agrees. Shifting the box again and giving Thor a pointed look, he suggests, "In the meantime, we could use some Asgardian muscle to carry in food from the car, if you're not busy." 

"Of course!" Thor agrees as Clint turns to head for the cafeteria. Tossing an arm around Baldur’s shoulder, he drags his bemused brother along to help. Val rolls her eyes as she follows, and the three Guardians exchange looks before heading out as well. 

Natasha glances down at the snoring dog, somewhat surprised that he hasn’t stirred with all of the comings and goings. She could help with the food, but would Hati panic if he wakes alone? Of course, Baldur and Gamora will be right back... 

Bucky returns, frowning and without his box. As he passes through on his way back out to the car, he asks, “Have you seen Steve? He wasn’t in the cafeteria.” 

*** 

It takes a bit of searching, but Natasha eventually finds her target outside on the deck overlooking the lake. He’s found a wooden deck chair and settled into it. As she steps forward, it occurs to her that it’s the first time they’ve been alone together since she came back, and that it may be the last time they’re ever alone, considering his persistent, metal-armed shadow. “Hey. Do you have a minute?” 

Steve turns from his contemplation of the sunset over the lake and smiles. “For you, Nat? Always.” 

She glances toward the horizon, at the low-hanging sun wreathed in red clouds. “Pretty,” she observes softly, coming to stand by his chair. 

“You didn’t get sunsets in your garden.” 

“No. It’s been a while since I’ve seen anything like this.” Her eyes follow the flight of a bird as it swoops low over the lake and climbs again to soar above the trees. “I wanted to say that it meant a lot. What you said when you returned the Soul Stone. It helped me hang on to myself.” She lays her small hand over his on the arm of his chair and solemnly says, “I wouldn't have made it back without you, Steve.” 

He turns his hand so he can clasp hers, keeping his gaze on the horizon as he tears up. “I’m glad you did,” he says roughly. Clearing his throat, he looks up at her and says, “So. This sounds like a goodbye.” 

“Yeah,” she confirms with a nod, pivoting a little to face him. “We’re not Avengers anymore. You’re retired and I have to do some growing up before I think about getting back in the game.” 

He raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Really? Hard to imagine you benching yourself when all of your limbs are still attached.” 

“Sam and I had a conversation about child soldiers,” she replies. “He’s right, even if I’m the ‘child’ in question. Don’t want to set a bad example.” 

He hums thoughtfully. “You going home with Barton, then?” 

“I need to spend some time with Laura and the kids.” She smiles and shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t think I can stay at the farm forever, but it’ll give me a chance to figure out who I’m going to be.” 

Confused, he repeats, “Who you’re going to be?” 

The girl nods decisively. “Right now, the whole world knows that Natasha Romanoff was killed in action, and only a handful of people are aware that I exist. I can be whoever I want.” Seeing his expression, she chides, “Hey, don’t don’t look so grim. I’m always going to be Nat to my family. Just not on my driver’s license… when I can get one.” 

"Well, I guess it _is_ your turn to get a life," Steve says, a hint of amusement trickling back. 

It's an odd way to put it, but not wrong. "You could say that." 

His smile turning a little sad, the old man nods and looks back toward the sunset. “Got a new name picked out?” 

“Not yet. I’m going to let the kids help me choose. But I’ll let you know so you get it right when you send me birthday presents.” She grins impishly as he rolls his eyes and chuckles. Sobering, she tells him, “I’ll miss you, Steve. I think… I think I’m going to miss all of this. But it was good while we had it, right?” 

“Yeah,” he agrees, squeezing her hand gently. “It was.” 

  
***

_ Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end. _

-Seneca

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> There is a sequel in the works focusing mostly on Clint and his family, but it will be a few weeks before I can start posting new chapters.


End file.
